The Ollivanders at War
by vifetoile89
Summary: Sequel to 'The Ollivander Children.' Imprisoned, kidnapped, separated, Calliope, Mark, & Linus fight for their freedom. But what awaits them outside the walls, and among themselves? Memory, amnesia, madness, prejudice, & love intertwine. Set during HBP. COMPLETE.
1. Splendidly False

**The Ollivanders At War**

By Vifetoile

I do not own the Harry Potter universe, but rather, J. K. Rowling does.

More author's notes at the end of this chapter.

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><p><em><strong>The Story So Far<strong>__**:**_

Hiding out in Hollywyck, the Ollivander homestead in Scotland, were Mark Printzen, American Muggle on the run from the law, Linus Ollivander, the Obliviator responsible for helping him escape his first sentence, and Calliope Ollivander, awkwardly joining the Order of the Phoenix, and trying to keep the peace between them. Meanwhile, Turpin Rowle, Linus' boss in the Obliviators, is attempting an experiment to erase Benedicte, Linus and Calliope's older sister, from the collective memory of everyone. He takes advantage of the fact that he is holding Mr. Ollivander prisoner to accomplish this.

He realizes his experiment is incomplete, and sets out to Hollywyck to gather the materials necessary– solid memory and proof of Benedicte's existence – to construct it again. Linus is gone, off to Hogwarts to try and find out more about Benedicte Ollivander, whom he has completely forgotten. So Turpin Rowle only meets Calliope and Mark there. Calliope, to stall for time and save Mark, says that she can remember Benny (which is not a complete lie: she has no personal memories of Benny, but unlike Linus, she can remember being told about Benedicte.) Turpin kidnaps Calliope and takes her back to his house - just in time for Linus to see him.

Linus and Mark, both panicked and blaming each other, leave Hollywyck at once and find Hector. After an argument (where Mark confesses he is in love with Calliope) the three of them try to rescue her from Turpin's house. However, unbeknownst to them, Turpin has left his house empty, taken both of his captives away, and smothered his house in alarm spells. Mark, Linus, and Hector are Stunned, and arrested by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

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><p><strong>Chapter One – Splendidly False<strong>

A knock came at the door of the Rowle house in Brighton-on-Sea. A middle-aged house elf opened the door. The mistress of the house hurried to greet the visitor. "Thank you, Corky, that will be all," she said with barely a glance in the elf's direction.

"Mrs. Blodwen Rowle?" the man at the door asked, dressed in robes of black with gold stripes.

"That's me, how may I help you?" she asked with a ready smile. Blodwen Rowle had short curly hair, still brown, and always wore pearls in her ears. They brought a bit of light to her round, gently lined face.

"Captain Reginald Vimes, ma'am, Magical Law Enforcement. Is your brother-in-law, Turpin Rowle, here right now?"

Her smile disappeared. "Why, yes he is. His bronchitis is acting up again, so he came over here for some warmth and Echinacea wine…"

"We need to speak to him, ma'am.'

"Of – of course. Right this way, sirs. Follow me."

The captain and his attendant followed her to a well-furnished parlor, where a fire was roaring and two men, grey-haired and lanky, in dressing gowns were sitting before it, sipping wine. The one facing the door started up. "Officers! How may I be of assistance?"

"Are you Turpin Rowle, sir?"

"No… that would be me." The one who had his back to the door turned around in his seat to face Captain Vimes in the eye. "Good evening, officer, good evening. Are you in need of my assistance?"

"Allow me, brother…" Thorfinn Rowle waved his wand and gently turned his brother's chair so he was facing the Captain. At the same time, Mrs. Rowle entered the parlor quietly and Corky trotted in bearing wine and a few glasses.

"Has some emergency come up at the O&P Division? As you can see, I'm a touch under the weather at the moment…"

"Sir, in your absence, your house has been broken into."

"_What?_" Turpin stood up at once. "What do you mean? How recently?"

"Just in the past couple of hours, sir. Thanks to your alarm spells we apprehended the intruders at once. They're in custody now, sir."

"Oh, thank heavens." Turpin sank back into his chair. His brother handed him his wine, and he took a gulp. "Was anything taken?"

"Not that we could find, sir. It appears that shortly after the intruders crossed the threshold, a Confundus Charm took effect on all three of them. They were Stunned shortly thereafter."

"All _three_?" Turpin asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes. Three."

"Well…" he took another drink. "Good thing I always set a Confundus Charm as my basic line of defense… and an alarm to the good M.L.E." He gave a little toast to the Captain and said "Now go on, go on. Who did this? Did they give you their names?"

"They didn't need to. We identified them on the spot."

"Really?" Thorfinn asked.

"Yes. Mr. Rowle, I suggest you prepare yourself for a bit of a shock."

"You're a true gentleman, Captain Vimes, but I assure you I can take it." Turpin gazed at him with a steely eye.

"Linus Ollivander, an Obliviator who I believe serves under you, was one of the number."

Turpin dropped his gaze. "Ollivander. L.O." He shook his head. "I thought I knew him. I thought I had taught him!" He sighed. "And I suppose the other is that Muggle, that Presumptuous one?"

"Yes, sir, Mark Printzen."

"I tried to convince Umbridge of it, you know," Turpin commented to his brother. "I tried to tell her they _weren't_ working together. Look at the thanks I get!"

"Who was the third assailant?" Thorfinn asked the captain.

"According to his Apparition license, his name is Hector Gibbs, a cousin of Mr. Ollivander's."

"I heard he was running the shop with his uncle," Blodwen said suddenly.

"I have a few more questions…" Turpin took another sip with a shaking hand. "They were breaking in. Did they look like they were trying to steal anything?"

"What would they want from your house?" Blodwen asked.

"Anything – legal documents, maybe some of my rarer books on memory modification… what did it seem that they were after?"

"There's no solid proof of anything, sir. They were, after all, Confounded."

Thorfinn cleared his throat and his wife coaxed their house-elf forward, saying, "Please, take some wine. I insist."

"Thank you, ma'am, but duty calls, as always. It's a busy night."

"Captain." Turpin's voice was clear, and he looked up at the Captain's face. "Tell your commanding officer – tell Umbridge herself – that I shall be at the Sycorax tomorrow morning – they are at the Sycorax, right?"

"Until further notice, sir."

"That I shall be at the Sycorax myself tomorrow. Don't say a word," he gestured to silence his brother and sister-in-law. "This is just a seasonal bronchitis. More mead will set me right at once. I _will_ be there tomorrow for their interrogation. Tell Umbridge that I shall deal with Linus Ollivander, and Mr. Gibbs, and the Muggle myself."

"Very good, sir. I hope you recover quickly, sir."

"I hope I shall. Sirs, I commend you highly for this duty."

"I'll send Corky over to your place right away, to pick up your things." Thorfinn put his hand on his brother's shoulder as the officers departed. Blodwen saw them out and came back a minute later saying, "They're gone."

Turpin picked up his glass. His hand was shaking. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. I saw them Disapparate."

Turpin knocked his wineglass back with a vengeance. He smacked his lips and gasped, "More wine!" As he poured his second glass he started chortling, then cackling. "Did you see that, Thorfinn? Did you _see_ that?"

"I saw it, Turpin, every minute of it."

"I mean did you _see_ that? _Did – you – see – that?_"

"Have some more wine, Turpin," Blodwen said dryly, pouring herself a glass.

"Don't mind if I do! And for you, Thorfinn, I could not have done this without you, God only knows!"

"I must take credit where it's due," Thorfinn said, clinking glasses with a grin.

"I mean, for the love of all wizardry. What did I just do? I just…" he coughed, cleared his throat. "'Scuse me… I just kidnapped the sister of my _prime_ protégé before his face, and then got him _and_ his stupid Muggle friend arrested for breaking into my house and trying to _rescue_ her! And I get rewarded with a gold crown! I'll be there in the morning to interrogate them! While the girl's locked away downstairs with her uncle, Ollivander and the Muggle are stuck in the Sycorax again and tomorrow _I get to interrogate them_ – ha ha!" He cackled and then caught Thorfinn's eye. "I guess the old man ain't as dumb as he looks!"

Thorfinn laughed loudly. "This is a good night, Turpin. This is one for the books."

"You better believe it's one for the books! I am going to tell the Dark Lord this at the first chance I get and _you, you_ my good brother are going to stand there saying 'yep, yessir, everything is true.' And we'll really knock the socks off the Lestranges and that Snape! Oh, god, this is too good. It's too good to be true. A-ha. 'Splendide Mendax' to the end, my brother. Splendidly false."

Calliope awoke to darkness. "Help – " she croaked. She felt a hand on her forehead – cool, and trembling a little. It was wrinkled like old paper, and holding something – the end of a braid of hair. Her hair.

"Hush, little Calliope," came a familiar voice. "I'm here."

"Uncle?" she asked, not daring to believe it. She sat up. Memories abruptly occurred to her: the discovery of Benedicte's erasure. The attack on Hollywyck. Her trading herself for Mark. But Uncle – Uncle Servaas was here.

His hand found hers and they clung to each other. He whispered, "It's me. I'm here, I'm here."

Calliope closed her eyes so that his voice would be more real to her than the darkness. "Where are we?"

"We're together. Beyond that, I am not sure. You were brought to Turpentine's cellar – that's what I call the man who imprisons me, and now you."

"He's Linus' boss. In the Obliviators, he's a leader. An Omniamnist."

"I'm afraid so."

"But while you were asleep, he moved us quickly to his brother's house. I was blindfolded, but I could infer as much. We're together."

"Together," she repeated, laying her hands on his.

"Yes."

"Your hands are cold."

"I know. I've gotten used to that."

"Oh, Uncle…" Calliope didn't want to speak the words that pressed heavily on her mind. It sounded so childish – but she haltingly asked, "What are we going to do now?"

"Wait," was his response. "Wait, and do not worry. We'll only weaken ourselves with fear."

Calliope nodded. "Yes." Already her eyes were adjusting themselves to the darkness. "I know. Uncle – would you like me to tell you about Benedicte?"

His voice was thoughtful. "And who is Benedicte?"

"She was Linus' and my sister. A Death Eater – Turpentine – erased her memory from everyone who knew her. But somehow he missed me. Would you like me to tell you about her?"

"Nothing would please me more, but first – Calliope, how did you come to be here?"

No more issues of '_The Daily Prophet_' came to Hollywyck, but Scurry knew that something was wrong. Master had not come back yet, nor had Miss, and more than that, she just _knew_ they were in danger. But she couldn't reach them.

To give herself some peace of mind, she began to clean. As she cleaned out the library, she found a letter, already half-in its envelope, which she recognized as the one that Miss Calliope had been writing. All that was left to be done was the seal and outer address. Scurry unfolded the letter and studied it.

Now, house-elves can read, but they do not write. It simply is not done. They have such excellent memories that they have no need to make lists or reconfigure sums, and what else what they need to write for?

Therefore, Scurry had a crisis on her hands.

She had the letter and knew its purpose, but could not address it. With the resourcefulness typical of her kind, and the resourcefulness of anyone whose family is in trouble, she set upon the latest '_Daily Prophet_.'

Finally, she found an address:

"If any knowledge of the whereabouts of Mr. Ollivander or the Muggle is uncovered, please send pertinent information to…"

Taking a pair of kitchen shears, Scurry deftly cut out the little address, pasted it to the front of the envelope, and then went to the rooftop aviary.

She roused Hugin, one of the old family owls, and sent him on his way. Scurry watched the bird with the all-important epistle fly away and diminish until her sharp eyes could see him no more. Her hands stayed clasped together, as if she were praying for her master.

They had found her.

Mark dreamed that it was midnight, and he was standing on the rooftop of Andrew's apartment. Calliope was with him, dressed in black. He kept trying to talk to her, but his words – words of love and valor – only dropped from his mouth as toads and snakes. Calliope scorned his slimy attempts and turned to walk away, out towards the empty air.

But she did not fall off the roof. Invisible Dementors swarmed around her, pitching the Boston night into a midwinter freeze. They had covered her mouth with their hands – without seeing them, Mark knew they were going to Kiss her and destroy her soul – but she reached out imploringly to Mark, her silver eyes full of terror, but she couldn't say a word – and at last he found his voice and he screamed her name with such force that his entire self became that scream and when the scream vanished so did he…

He woke up.

Mark opened his eyes, then closed them again, tightly. "No," he mouthed. Then he heard it: the heartbeat of the Thames. The deep, steady thrum of the great river against walls of stone. The lullaby of the Sycorax.

When Hector woke up, his head ached – had he been Stunned? – and he sat up. He heard Mark say, "Good morning, Hector. Welcome to the Sycorax."

Hector looked around, his eyes wide. Mark's usually animated face was listless, his brown fringe obscuring his eyes. Nearby, Linus lay on a cot of his own, his narrow, pale face pinched with worry, even in sleep. Beginning to panic, Hector patted his pockets but his wand was gone. "I can't believe this!" he cried.

"I can't either, to be honest."

"Where did we go wrong?"

"I don't know."

Hector thought. "I think," he said slowly, "I think there was a Confounding Charm placed on you. On us. All at once. And we were then arrested for breaking and entering."

"Linus doesn't look too good over there," Mark pointed out.

"You think we should wake him up?"

"Nah. Let him sleep. Besides," he added bitterly, "As soon as he comes to he'll probably start blaming me for everything."

"For once I don't blame you," Linus' voice sounded. He turned away from the wall and said, facing the ceiling, "And it looks like none of us could have prevented it. But I thank you for your faith in my character."

Mark glanced to the walls. Now his hazel eyes were a bit brighter, and keen. "It looks like I've somehow caused us to land in the Muggle ward, which at least means we've got a little privacy. Which is why I'm going to ask how we can escape."

"We're not going to discuss this now," Linus said sitting up, "Because someone's coming."

Footsteps approached from down the hall. The Warden, a tall, thickset man with a red beard, came into view from the torchlight. He stood before the cell door and spoke from there. "Morning, gentlemen. Seeing as how you're all awake –"

"How'd you know?" Mark asked, but it came out a whisper and the Warden ignored it.

"- you are all bid a most hearty welcome to the Sycorax – or, in the case of Printzen, a warm homecoming."

Mark thought darkly that he'd never realized that his own name could be a weapon. But he stood up and said sharply, "I'm glad to be back, but listen." He strode to the door the cell, looking the Warden in the face. "Right now, as we speak, there is a woman held prisoner by a Dead Eater."

"Death Eater," Linus corrected.

"Death Eater," Mark continued, not missing a beat.

The warden cut him off, "Just one? My god, they're goin' soft! Hallelujah! I know some folks who'll be real happy to hear that."

"I'm serious! Her name is Calliope Ollivander. The man whose house we broke into, he kidnapped her. _Are you listening to me?_"

The Warden had been fiddling with his keys. "I'm listening."

"Well, then _look_ at me."

"What's it come to, that I take orders from the likes of you?"

Mark was about to respond, his eyes blazing, but Linus laid a cool hand on his shoulder. "We're telling the truth," he said, fixing the Warden with a practiced Obliviator stare. "Calliope Ollivander, my sister, has been kidnapped by Turpin Rowle."

"Look, you all three were hit with a mighty Confoundus Charm – "

"It's the _truth!_" Mark exclaimed.

"Test our memories, give us Veritaserum," Linus continued, "it will tell you the same."

"Please, sir," Mark said, in a different voice – softer, yet slightly desperate – "Just put out a Missing Persons Report, or something, on Calliope Ollivander. Please. And I'll be the most obedient and meek prisoner you could dream of."

"We all will," Hector added. "Be. So." He faltered, then ran a hand through his jaw-length blond hair.

"Now I like the sound of _that_," the Warden said. "I'll put out a report, though I can't answer for how fast it'll be processed. There's a terrible backlog."

"Thank you," Linus and Mark both spoke tightly.

"Now, as long as we're talking about your actual stay… since your capture, Dolores Umbridge has already scheduled a hearing for you at the earliest possible date, one week from now. Fortunately, for your entertainment and enlightenment, you already have a visitor scheduled for today. And that's not counting the letters you've gotten at the front desk."

"We'll pass on the letters, thanks." Linus frowned. "Who's the visitor? Is it Umbridge?"

The Warden let out a laugh. "That woman wouldn't condescend to step one pink shoe in here! No, it en't her," he said, sobered all of a sudden.

"I have a question," Mark said. "Why are we in the Muggle ward? Is it just because I'm here?"

"In short, yes. If we could, we'd have housed you separately, but there just en't _room_ anywhere else. We've got so many prisoners here now – even though most only stay for a night or two – that we thought it lucky that we have an excuse to put you in the empty Muggle ward."

"Ah," Mark said quietly. "Well, I'm always glad to be of service."

"That's the spirit. Now, your visitor should be along soon. So make yourselves up nicely, now."

When the warden had left, the three men sat down again. "Well," Hector said, "guess there's nothing to do but wait."

Linus clambered back onto his bunk. "I'm going to try to sleep again."

Mark nodded. After a minute he turned to Hector. "I know this may seem like an odd time, but I just realized I don't know you that well. And you don't know me, either. So – since we've got nothing to do but wait –" Mark swallowed; " – and wait, and worry, how about we share a bit about our lives?" As Linus turned over in his bunk Mark added, "Quietly, of course."

"Of course. I like that idea. You want to go first?"

"Sure. Um, where to start… I'm an only child. I was born in Pepperell, this small town in Massachusetts. My dad is Fritz Printzen, proudly Dutch, and my mom's Jane Sullivan, though everyone calls her Janet. She's mostly Irish. I was raised Catholic – elementary school, high school, the whole deal. My birthday is…"

As he related these simple facts he could feel his shoulders loosening. It was as though by reciting these facts, he was reclaiming himself. He was not 'The Muggle,' he was Mark Printzen, only son of Fritz and Janet, and he was going to make sure Hector understood it.

And Hector did understand, and listened to Mark attentively.

Not long after Hector had finished regaling Mark with the tale of his class prank in his seventh year, a jailor approached the cell. He said, opening the door, "Your visitor is here. He wants to speak to Mr. Gibbs first."

Hector stood up shakily. "Well, here I am." He nodded mutely to the other two men and followed the jailer quietly.

Mark and Linus watched until he was out of sight. For a long time neither said anything. Finally, Mark ventured, "Who do you think it is?"

"I know who I pray to God it isn't."

"Leave us alone, please. I'm sure I can protect myself." The visitor smiled at the prisoner. He had not minded the wait; in fact he had spent it usefully, altering the various spells in the wall – spells to record voices and movement and raise alarms. And now, he enjoyed the look that the prisoner was giving him.

The Shadow Cloak prevented Hector from recognizing the long face, crooked nose, and unevenly florid complexion. But when he unclasped the top of the Shadow Cloak he wore – the clasp shaped like a star and two moons – Hector realized he didn't know him at all.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asked.

Hector shook his head, his blond hair trembling slightly.

"I am the man whose house you broke into."

Hector's eyes widened and his mouth opened as if to scream. He stepped backwards instinctively.

"Yes, that's right, cringe, Hector Gibbs," the Death Eater went on, looking straight into Hector's eyes. "Isn't that what you always do? Cringe and whimper and cry to others for help. Just like always, Hector Gibbs."

"Where is she?" Mark asked, almost inaudibly. "Calliope."

"I don't know."

The two sat together in the cell. Linus had given up trying to sleep.

"I hope she's with Uncle Servaas."

"What is he going to do when he realizes she has no memories of B–"

"Ssh!" Linus cut him off. "No one must learn that. But…" he frowned, "first they'll have to make sure she has none… and then what he'll do to her… oh God…" he put his head in his hands. "The Death Eater that Amy talked about who warped people's memories… that has to be him –"

"Exactly… how much could he take away from her?" Mark asked. "What are the limits of what magic can do to memory?"

Linus opened his mouth. "I… I honestly don't know. I can answer that if I was staying within the realm of what is morally right to perform –"

"On Muggles."

"—_yes_, but, he has no boundaries. I don't know." He gave a bitter, short laugh. "And aren't I living proof of what damage can be done to the mind?"

"Hey," Mark said sharply. "None of that. I don't want to hear it. And don't give me that look. You have magic, don't you? And when we find Calliope again, you're the one who's going to have to help her if that creep has done – _anything_ to her. And she doesn't need a ball of angst for a brother."

"I know," Linus snapped. "I know."

"I thought you were supposed to be an Obliviator."

"I am! And I'm good at what I do! But – Damn." He sighed between his teeth. "How can I tell you who I am, how I became the way I am, if I can't even tell you my own past?"

Mark nodded.

"But then again," Linus contradicted himself, "People aren't just defined by their pasts…"

"Printzen." It was a statement, not a question. Another jailer was there. "Mr. Gibbs is returning, and the visitor wants to see you next."

Mark stood up, nodded to Linus, and followed the jailer down the long corridor. With every step he could feel and hear the rush of the Thames all around, and, maybe it was just his imagination, but beyond that were the boats and cars of London. Strange – most times a prison was on the outskirts of a city, not the center. But cities unfolded and developed like flowers, and anyway, everything was different with wizards. He started to wonder if they had true names, like in Earthsea, but decided against it.

His mind was still in Earthsea and heading into Middle-Earth when he walked into the cell. Then he heard a familiar deep voice say "Give us the place alone, I assure you I can handle _him_." That woke him up, every nerve. When the door closed, the man in the long black cloak turned around. "Well, well, well," he said with a smile, "how the tables are turned."

"You –"

"Ah-ah-ah, not a word." Turpentine's smile widened. "Don't you want to know what has become of darling Calliope?"

Mark lunged, but Turpentine twitched his wand and the Muggle froze in place. "Temper, temper." The Death Eater shook his head. "Wouldn't want to add assault of a Ministry of Magic authority to your list of crimes, would you? Assault of a witch, theft of her wand, breaking and entering, and, of course, Presumption – it's a hefty list already. You could be facing years in Azkaban on all that…" he looked the prisoner in the face, and then said, as though he'd read his mind, "And what will we tell your parents? What indeed?"

He straightened up. "There's _quite_ enough for you to defend yourself without assaulting me, so I'll trust you to respect that when I loosen this spell." He gave his wand another lazy wave and Mark could move again. Once he'd regained his footing, he remained standing, glaring at Turpentine.

"Come, come – _sit_." That word, too, had power, and as if a giant hand was pressing him down Mark was forced to sit at the table. Mark resisted as well as he could, thinking '_I will _not_ be a coward_.'

He tried to think how a hero would act: look this scum dead in the face, fearlessly and without shame? Or keep his face down so that his eyes could not be read? Mark, conceding his foe's power, looked at his hands on the table, but kept his back ramrod-straight.

"That's right," Turpentine sneered, "look down like the groveling Muggle you are."

It was with great effort that Mark kept his eyes downcast. T.R. went on, "Technically I'm supposed to investigate your memories… test once and for all your innocence… to see if maybe all this is really just a _terrible_ misunderstanding… but to be honest I don't want you to be innocent, and I don't care. But I do know that you dare to lust after a witch, and that's plenty of guilt for me, and I'm sure Umbridge will agree."

Mark's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"What's that? Speak up, Muggle."

"You can't find me guilty of love." '_Jesus, that sounds stupid_,' he thought.

"It's not just _love_," Turpentine spat the word. "It's degrading our daughters and sisters and dirtying our blood. It's the _presumption_ that you are equal to us – and to me."

"I am better than you," Mark said, looking up at last. The next second he gave a strangled cry as his tongue was twisted wretchedly within his mouth.

"Never say that again." Turpentine lowered his wand. "Now, because I am a man of my word, I will tell you what has become of your sweetheart. She is currently in darkness and cold, hidden underground. Not alone, but she will be all alone soon. She is unharmed, but I remind you, for the likes of her – who associates with the likes of you – there is little mercy among my compatriots."

He leaned back, and took a breath, as if all this villainy was exhausting.

Then he looked back at Mark. "I wonder why I shouldn't just Modify your memory right now. No one would check to see if they'd been tampered with."

'_Linus would_,' Mark thought – or hoped.

"I could remove your memory of Calliope entirely, leave you, a confused Muggle, with no idea of why you're here at all…"

"Have you read anything of Franz Kafka?" Mark blurted.

Turpentine opened his mouth, then thought for a second. "Actually, that name does sound familiar. Years ago. We were assigned it for a class on Muggle psychology. 'The Metamorphosis,' yes? 'The Trial'?"

"Yes…"

"Yes, I read them all. Quite good, too. I should reread those." He gave a little start. "Don't distract me. I have a deal to offer you."

"Whatever your deal is, no."

"Don't be so hasty. This proposition concerns you deeply."

"I refuse to –"

"_Silencio_. Now, unfortunately, there is no spell known that forces its subject to listen, but you _shall_ do that. The deal is simple. As things stand now, I hold Miss Ollivander captive. You are on trial for Presumption. To be honest, your chances of acquittal look incredibly slim. So I say, have someone win by your misfortune."

Mark's hazel eyes stayed on the Death Eater's ruddy face. Turpentine smiled, and leaned closer to him. His voice was low and smooth by Mark's ear. "You will plead guilty to Presumption. Guilty to assault on a witch with a car. Guilty to the theft of her wand. And guilty of breaking and entering my house. You do that, and I will return the favor. Once I'm done with darling Calliope, I will let her go. I will not hold her prisoner. I will not turn her over to my Death Eater compatriots – who, I assure you, are much less merciful than I. I will not even leave her in the path of some hungry Dementor. I will set her free to do as she would wish. In short, your freedom – such as it is – for hers. See, that _did_ get your attention!"

Mark's eyes were wide and he was finding it hard to breathe.

"Remember, after all – she offered herself in your place at the Ollivander homestead. She's already bargained your freedom. It's up to you now. Your trial is in one week. I _will_ be there. I will act precisely on what you do." Now T.R. was behind him. "Do what you will, but I promise this: you will never see her again."

He opened the door. "I'm finished with the Muggle. Send in the Obliviator."

As they led the Muggle away, T.R. smiled after him, then turned away from the door. He didn't turn around again until it was opened and he said "Again, I assure you I can handle him." The door shut once moor.

T.R. turned around, beginning to say, "Well, L.O., we meet again, but in sadly altered – good _God_, man!" he stared at his student's weary, lined face. "You look like you haven't slept in a week!"

"I haven't," was Ollivander's cold, flat response. "Not really."

"My – " T.R. stepped towards him, stroking his chin. "I wonder if that's caused by the Memory Modification – I should have brought my –"

"What do you _want_."

"Ah. Yes. Right to the point. We must not get distracted, after all. I won't lead you for a dance like I did the Muggle. I still have a modicum of respect for you." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "You know who I really am, now. And you know exactly what threat I hold over your head."

"Where is Calliope?"

"I'll tell you now, your sister is alive, secure, and hidden. And I intend to keep her that way, unless…"

"What?"

"We make a deal."

In the basement, Calliope and her uncle sat on the couch. All day long they talked together. It followed a familiar pattern:

"Tell me – some more about Benedicte. Did she look like her mother or her father?"

"She took after Papa. She and Linus and I have the same coloring, though – pale skin, black hair, grey eyes."

"The Ollivander eyes."

"Yeah. She was a Gryffindor – did I say that already?"

"Yes, my dear."

"It's your turn. Tell me about your days at Hogwarts," or, "Tell me another story about the family," or "Tell me about wandlore." At the last one, Servaas had given a little pause and said, "By the way, Calliope. The question I asked you in my last letter – "

"Why did Harry Potter's wand cause a stalemate against the Dark Lord's?"

"Yes. Did you figure out the answer?"

She lowered her head in the darkness. "No, Uncle, I'm so sorry. Everything has been so busy – "

"Don't fret, dear. Can you think of the answer now?"

Calliope paused, then said, "I really don't know – the thing I've been researching are these Deathly Hallows that this girl Luna told me about…" she paused. "She had a phoenix-core wand, like mine." Now, slowly, "did they shared cores? Is that what caused the _Priori Incantetum_?"

"Yes. Ssh. It's a secret. Both of them also have a phoenix feather core, from the same phoenix. That's why his wand failed."

"That's why he needs a new one. Who knows what was shared between their wands when…" Calliope clenched her uncle's hand in the obscurity. "We'll get out of here, Uncle. Don't you worry."

"I'm not. Only for you."

"Just you wait. Dora, Mark, Linus, they'll be here. If it's hell or high water, they'll come and get us…"

"Don't tire yourself. What more do you remember of your sister?"

Hector and Mark were silent in their cell. Mark was pacing back and forth restlessly. Hector sat on his bed with a gloomy, listless frown. Both looked up when they heard footsteps stop at their door. Linus was let in.

The door closed again with an echoing slam.

Hector started to ask Linus, "What – " but stopped when Linus almost fell over. He regained balance, and tottered sideways to lean against the wall. Then he sank wordlessly onto the floor, burying his face in his hands.

He would not be consoled. Hector looked to Mark, but Mark had no consolation to offer either.

Through darkness and coolness, night fell over London. Through the interminable and unchangeable routine, night fell in the Sycorax.

The three prisoners in the Muggle ward were given grey robes, their scratchy, cheap fabric softened and thinned by years of use. They were directed to the mess hall, and to the community showers.

When the hour was late enough, the Warden called, "Lights out!" and across the hallways, the lamps were quenched, leaving just a few thing candles burning in the walls. The men went to their beds. But only a moment after he lay down, one of the prisoners said, "I have something to tell you guys."

"What is it?" Hector asked, as Linus was still not speaking.

"The Death Eater offered me a deal."

Linus turned over on his bunk. "He offered me one, too."

"I want to talk about it."

"Not until we've had some sleep. It's not something to discuss on a sleepless brain."

"I won't be able to sleep at all until I talk about it."

A pause, then, "Mark Printzen, I hate it when you're right."

"So, the Death Eater made you and I both a proposition," Mark began.

"Not me," Hector said petulantly. "He said I'm not _worth_ blackmailing."

"The deal he offered me was," Mark covered his eyes with his hand as he spoke, "Plead guilty to everything – everything – "

"And he would let Calliope go," Linus finished. "'When I'm done with her,' those were her words."

"God!" Mark clenched his fists, "I wish I could rip out his –"

"Well, we can't do anything to him, but believe me I agree. What do you think?"

There was a long pause.

"I don't know. And I'm _not_ being a coward," Mark added.

"I _am_ worth blackmailing!" Hector said to no one in particular.

"What do you think?" Mark asked Linus.

"I… really don't know either."

Calliope had made it her task to explore their new prison; now she returned to the couch.

"What have your explorations told you?"

"I think we're in an office. There's the couch, a desk in the middle, shelves, a chair, two lamps, and what I think may be a stack of wine bottles. And two doors, one bigger, one smaller. The big one is locked, but the little one isn't. I didn't explore in that room yet, though."

"Very good, very good. Now, would you please lead me to the nearest lamp?"

"Uncle…"

"Just do as I say, please."

Carefully, she did so. She held one of his hands in both of hers, and when he was standing up, led him to one of the lamps. Why, she did not ask. A silent minute floated by, without a clock to measure it.

"_Lumos_."

The lamp blazed into brilliant light. Calliope covered her eyes at first – then realized that the brilliancy was only about half, maybe two-thirds, of the light that the lamp could have given. But there it was.

Her Uncle was standing there, two hands on the dusty glass globe. The lamp was shining, without a wand in sight. She blinked and took another look around the office. It matched her evaluation. It was also something of a storage room. There were boxes of children's books, and a few toys in a lovingly dilapidated state.

Calliope slowly turned back to her Uncle. "What did you just do, and can I learn how to do it?"

He gave a cool smile, his pale eyes glittering. "I'm very glad you asked," he answered, "because I intend to teach you. Listen to me. We are not going to be together very long. Telling each other stories is good, but we will be torn apart again, and soon."

"Uncle –"

"Let me finish. I _will_ teach you this skill. It took me a long time to master it. I'm not as strong as you; you will master it more quickly. I will leave you this as my legacy."

Calliope took a deep breath. "If this is going to be your legacy – I'm honored. Thank you, Uncle. I will try my best to learn it from you."

"You won't try. You _shall_. And this skill will be your salvation."

"How?" Then, quickly, "No. Show me."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back. Thanks for tuning in!

Obviously I don't own this universe, but I have a few other disclaimers to make. I've got to come clear with you about a few things.

First of all, this story will be updating less frequently than _The Ollivander Children_. I honestly don't even know when I will post chapter two, simply because my next three weekends are packed and then it's finals season. However, my goal is a regular, consistent schedule that is just less frequent. Perhaps once every two weeks, or even less. My reasons are several:

1. I am not fully finished with this story, and I want to have time to make the ending thrilling, daring, heartwarming, and appropriately foreshadowed. And did I mention satisfying?

2. I am a very busy student and I cannot promise that I won't be swamped with work, or with traveling, or with similar occupations on my Saturdays (I have made an exception for this week, because I think one delay is enough.)

_3. The Suspense_!

Slower updates does NOT mean that this fic is dying. I will not let this fic die. Take it from me, as a writer. This story will be finished.

Also. I have to come clean about why I wrote this story in the first place.

It's because I was very disappointed in _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

As for 'why,' this is not the place. But the fact is that there were many elements that I thought were not well-handled. And part of my goal in creating _The Ollivander Children_ (and in finishing it with _The Ollivanders At War_) was to address and amend this. To answer questions not only like "What happened to Mr. Ollivander?" but "How did the wizarding world become so Third Reich-ish in a matter of months?" To show what the war looks like to people who aren't prophesied to destroy the Dark Lord. To set right where JKR went wrong. I know that that's a really arrogant statement for me to make, but it's the truth.

That's why, if some elements feel slightly reused, that's because I'm putting my own spin on something I found unsatisfying. If something feels like a jab at a _Deathly Hallows_ event… well, that's because it probably is. All in good fun.

Now, I will never (knowingly) contradict anything stated in the book _Deathly Hallows_. I only read the book once, but I won't go against it for canon. If I make a mistake, it's lack of research on my part, not attempting to subvert the seventh book.

Lastly, _thank you so much_ for reading. It means a lot to me; and if you have the time, I appreciate other gestures, too. Leave me reviews, or just recommend this to others. Write on this work's TV Tropes page (yes, we have a TV Tropes page - thanks, **illjwamh**, for mentioning it) But honestly, just keep reading and tuning in. I will try to post the next chapter next week – we shall see how that works. Don't lose faith in me. If I may say so myself, this second half is going to be pretty good.

And as a last note, the dedications.

I would like to dedicate this fanfiction (and all others in this series, btw) to those fanfic writers of the Sugar Quill, especially those whose works inspired me to write, and then to constantly improve my writing. They are, Katinka, A.L. de Sauveterre, Violet Azure, MysteriousMuggle, my first beta-reader, and Arabella and Zsenya, for creating the Quill in the first place. And I thank as well my beta-reader Author by Night, even if we have had to part ways somewhat on this adventure.

Thank you, all of you. Long Live 87!


	2. The Confessional

Chapter Two – The Confessional

A/N: A special treat this week – we have two Canon Guest Stars! (My fic has just so many original characters, when a canon character breaks onto the scene it creates a stir.)

For the record, there will be more canon guest stars in the chapters to come.

Furthermore, I know that the Sycorax is an extremely inefficiently organized jail. It's basically the Jail of Plot Convenience. I need it.

Also, apologies for awkward transitions. I've tried to amend that in this chapter. Some parts may fit together oddly because they were written many months apart. Just roll with it.

This chapter is even longer than the last one - I swear the chapters will get shorter. It's because what had been the second chapter was split between what is now chapters one and two. Enjoy, because I really don't know when I'll post the next one. Let's just say May for the time being.

Thank you to **mischief7manager** and **dal** for your reviews! Very encouraging – just what I needed!

* * *

><p>"So how did your visit go?" Thorfinn asked when he saw his brother that evening.<p>

"Hold on a moment, still busy." Turpin was reviewing a report from the Obliviator's Department, but presently he folded it up and said, "Ah! Yes, my visit. Most satisfying. I could really get used to gloating in my enemies' faces, I tell you that."

"I'm not going to argue with you there," Thorfinn chuckled, sitting down.

"Yes, it went very well on the whole, but I'm not quite used to the dynamic – the gloating, overpowering, any of that. I got distracted rather easily."

"Ah. Can't have that. By the way, Nott got the word to me. About the transfer –"

"Yes?"

"In three days. It'll happen in the wee hours."

"All right. And where –?"

"To Bindweed Hall."

Turpin scowled. "Those sots."

"I know. But I'd say be grateful that the Dark Lord hasn't commented on _your_ slip-up… yet."

"Oh, I'm grateful. And look at how I've repaired it! He'll notice."

"I ask you to take nothing for granted."

"I take nothing for granted, and neither do you – which is why we're still alive. I'll show him, though. I'll show them all. But thanks for your concern, all the same."

"I'm home," Blodwen's voice sounded from the entryway. She came in through the parlor, shedding her coat and hat. She kissed Thorfinn, and greeted her brother-in-law cheerily.

"You're in a better mood today, Blodwen," Turpin pointed out.

"Oh, yes, I just had a lovely time at the McLaggen's house, working out their order for their Hallowe'en party this year."

"But it's only early September – quite early to plan their Hallowe'en party."

"It's wise to plan ahead, especially when you're ordering such draughts as the McLaggens fancy. Thank you, Corky," she settled into her favorite chair and put on the slippers that Corky had laid out for her. "May I see that _Prophet_, love? Thank you."

After the three had talked over their days and had dinner, Turpin stood up. "I think I had best be paying a visit now to my captives… it's become sort of my habit at about this hour of night. Has Corky fed them?"

"Corky has seen to their dinners, yes," Blodwen answered. "Turpin – I have a request to make of you."

"To see to it that my experiments are done as quickly as possible and the inmates moved, yes, I _know_."

"I was going to speak of something else," she snapped. "If you might listen for once in your life."

"Wren…" her husband put a calming hand on her arm. Turpin turned to her. "All right. I'm listening."

"I would like to know more about the exact nature of the experiment you are conducting, and of why you suddenly captured Miss Ollivander."

Turpin crossed his arms. "Knowledge is dangerous."

"I'm willing to risk it."

Thorfinn smiled – discreetly, but proudly – at his wife.

"Okay. If you must know, what I am trying to determine is, whether or not it is possible to completely erase the memory of a person from the collective consciousness."

"Why?"

Turpin blinked. "What?"

"Why? What purpose does it serve?"

"Does knowledge for its own sake not appeal to you?"

"What practical use does this have?"

"An experiment isn't a – a tea cozy or something that to be practical."

"You mean you're endangering everyone in this house for the pure sake of knowledge?"

"No, that's not – true – I do have a plan. Really, I do. One that I am sure will please the Dark Lord."

"And that is?"

"Something I really do not feel I should tell you. For safety's sake."

Blodwen sighed. "Go on."

"For this, I chose Benedicte Ollivander. Why? Because she fits the parameters I wanted – the closest thing I could get to a test run on this experiment. I won't say any more. She was born in 1956 and died in 1976. I have – I thought – succeeded in erasing her memory from those who knew her personally. It turns out there were a few hitches, but the side-effects alone are very compelling." He gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Linus Ollivander says he hasn't slept in a week. I didn't have time to ask him more, but that's very encouraging."

"And this girl?"

"Yes. Calliope Ollivander said that she remembers her sister. From what I could tell, she was not lying. So, of course, I could not leave that experiment undone."

"But she couldn't…"

Turpin looked at his sister in law. "What?"

"Calliope Ollivander isn't old enough to remember Benedicte."

"Why, and what makes you say that?"

"The one downstairs was born in 1974. She would have been two when her sister died. _I _never heard of a child who could remember under the age of three or so, even a magical one. Surely you know that."

Turpin looked very alarmed. "No, of course not, the brain does not form conscious memories at that age. How do you know she was born in 1974?"

"I remember distinctly, because her mother, Philomel, placed an order with me to celebrate her birth. She ordered two bottles of our finest Iridescent Rose Champagne for the party she was giving. And then she attached a generous tip to the bill. It was an order to remember."

"You're _certain_?"

"Very certain. I could go into my old office and check the files, but, you know, it's occupied at the moment."

Turpin paused. "She lied."

"Apparently," Thorfinn cut in.

"I need some time to think about this," Turpin snapped his fingers. "Where's my notebook?" he rushed off in the direction of his room.

When he had gone his brother said to Blodwen, "He and I will work it out, don't you fret. I'm glad to see you two talking so civilly, by the way."

"Extinguish the lights! _Nox_."

"Why?"

"He's coming."

"_Nox_." It was easier to undo light than it was to make it. The light died just a moment before Turpentine opened the door.

"Good evening." With a wave of his wand he lit the two lamps on the desk, illuminating Mr. Ollivander on the couch and his grand-niece seated on the floor before the couch. She glanced to him. He said nothing, and so she turned to glare at their captor silently.

Turpentine smiled slowly and closed the door behind him. "How are you two keeping?" after a long pause, "Just as well. I have some news that may interest you – especially you, Miss Ollivander." He held out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ front page in his hand. "You recall the very agitated men that you and I left behind in Scotland?"

Calliope's face remained impassive – but unseen to Turpentine, she reached up towards her uncle. He took her hand without a word.

"Funny thing," Turpentine went on, taking his seat before the desk. "Last night, there was a break-in at my house last night. It appears that they were attempting a rescue."

He glanced at Mr. Ollivander. "Isn't it odd how no one came to rescue _you_? Not to get distracted… unfortunately for your would-be rescuers, there was no one there for them to rescue, or even fight. You see, I had not only left, but I had my house smothered in alarm spells to alert the Magical Law Enforcement of any break-in. Last night the intruders were apprehended and brought to the Sycorax Jail."

Calliope looked down. Her hand clutching her Uncle's was white.

"Still not a word, Miss Ollivander? Well, suit yourself. Yes, all three were apprehended."

She looked up at that. "All three?"

"Oh, yes. My student, Linus Ollivander, the Presumptive Mark Printzen, and, to everyone's surprise, Hector Gibbs."

"Hector?" Mr. Ollivander repeated.

"Oh, yes. Blonde fellow, skinny, grey eyes? Well, you all have grey eyes."

Calliope mutely nodded.

"I thought so. I saw him earlier today. In jail. I visited them all, you see."

Mr. Ollivander noticed how Calliope slumped as if greatly weakened. He squeezed her hand a little, trying to will her to be strong.

"Gibbs didn't bother hiding his cowardice from me. That was smart of him. Young Ollivander put on a show of stoicism. And you'll be glad to know, Miss Ollivander, that your Muggle's spirit isn't crushed yet. I expect that his new trial, and his very likely consignment to Azkaban, will change that. By the way, I was quite disappointed to learn something earlier tonight."

"What?" Calliope asked flatly.

"You lied to me, Miss Ollivander." Turpentine stood up. "You told me that you have memories of Benedicte Ollivander. Personal memories of interacting with her. You lied about your age – unless you have a superhuman, prodigious memory (which I admit is also quite interesting), you are too young to recall your sister. Now you are going to _stand up _–" suddenly his wand was out – "and you are going to _tell me the truth_."

Calliope was jerked into a standing position and forced to stand in front of Turpentine. At once the Death Eater had a bottle of perfectly clear liquid in his hand. He gave another twitch of his wand.

"Now, _drink_." Calliope's head was forced back, and though she tried to keep her jaw clamped shut, she could feel Turpentine's magic striking at her like a hammer –

"Turpentine! Stop this! Stop! You can do what you want to me, but –"

"Save your strength, old man, stay out of this." Turpentine poured the contents of the bottle into his captive's mouth, and then, when it was empty, forced her mouth shut. He kept his wand trained on her as she doubled over onto the floor, choking, until she swallowed.

"Good. Now – have a seat." He stepped away from the chair. Calliope straightened up from the floor and tried to sit with dignity on the leatherback chair. She glared at Turpentine with hatred, covering her mouth with her left hand.

"It's not going to work. Now answer. What is your name?"

Muffled, she answered, "Calliope Blithe Ollivander."

"You may as well remove your hand. It's just going to make life more complicated." When she didn't move, he jerked his wand once more and her hand was wrenched away.

"Calliope, you have the strength of will to resist him. I know you do," her Uncle coaxed.

"When is your birthday?" Turpentine said over the other man's insistence.

"February 7th, 1974."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Yes."

"Name them."

"Linus Fortitude Ollivander and Benedicte Clemence Ollivander."

"Do you remember Benedicte personally?"

"No." She appeared to shrink under his gaze. He continued to glower.

"Why, then, did you lie and say you did remember."

One hand went to her heart, as though she was trying to hold something in there. But slowly she answered, "To – protect – Mark."

Just as slowly, Turpentine answered, "Pathetic."

"Perhaps you would like to rethink that," Mr. Ollivander said, rising.

"Again, Mr. Ollivander, I advise you to stay out of this. Among my compatriots I am considered to be quite merciful. Miss Ollivander, do you know of anyone else who remembers Benedicte?"

"Mark does. I told him about her, and he remembers. Scurry, the Hollywyck house-elf, does not. Linus cannot remember her. Dementors attacked Hollywyck three nights ago."

"_What?_" Uncle gasped.

"They had no effect on him, or so it appeared. Linus was supposed to learn if Dora Tonks or any of the Hogwarts professors remembered Benedicte or not. But I never found out his results."

"Hm." Turpentine nodded, seeming to be making a mental note. "Thank you. And now, Miss Ollivander – _if your Uncle will kindly sit down – _thank you, Mr. Ollivander –you can help me make things all better."

She didn't answer.

"Are you listening to me?"

"No."

"Too bad. You have no idea how much your lie has inconvenienced me. But, as an eternal optimist, I've managed to turn a setback into an asset. Thanks entirely to your lie, you induced your cousin, your brother, and – your _Muggle_ – to break into my house. Alas, they only that found both the terrible tyrant and the fair maiden he kidnapped were long gone. I expect that the Muggle especially was distraught – in case you didn't noticed, he's besotted by you. Probably why he stole your wand in an attempt at Presumption."

"He did not steal my wand and he is not Presumptive."

"But still, now he, your brother, and your cousin are all in prison. How does that make you feel?"

"Sick."

"Fascinating. But the fact that you are _here_, and they are _there_, still is a terrible inconvenience for me and for the experiment I am conducting."

"The one to erase Benedicte from the world."

"Yes. But I'm a planner. I've got a plan for how you can help with this experiment, to make it complete. Are you willing to go along with it?"

"No."

"Too bad. If you don't cooperate – well, I don't suggest trying to pit your mind against mine. I'm much more practiced than you, young lady. Just ask your Uncle there." Again that cold smile lit up his face. "Then again, if you do cooperate – give me free access to the memories of your sister – then there is a chance that I may have pity for your friends. It is within my power to clear up the tragic misunderstandings that have plagued them for so long. It is in my power to name them all innocent – even of Presumption. Do you understand, Miss Ollivander? I said, _do you understand_?"

"Yes."

"Very good. You learn fast. I'll give you a little time to think about it."

Then he was finally gone.

In the darkness, Uncle Servaas said "_Lumos_." It revealed that Calliope was still sitting ramrod straight in the chair. Her hands covered her face and small sobs escaped her.

Her Uncle said softly, "He's gone, Calliope. He won't hurt you any more for now."

She said nothing. Finally her Uncle said, "I will be whatever you need me to be." He added, "I know you've always liked keeping secrets."

"I – I cannot, I cannot stay quiet!"

"I know. It's the potion."

"The Sycorax, Uncle… The _Sycorax_… I can't believe it – Mark and Linus and Hector and it's all my fault—"

"It's not."

"And after I said they would rescue us, too—"

"They were attempting to rescue us. You were completely right."

'But it's my fault."

"No, it's not. You did the right thing to protect your friend."

"Mark… oh, Mark…"

"Don't let anything that filthy minded man say matter to you…"

"Uncle, what he said about Mark isn't true. He's not – well, he _is_ a Muggle, but not the way that _he_ says it, as if the word were full of garbage. Mark is a good man. Yes, maybe he's impulsive – but he always tries so hard to do the right thing. He laughs and asks questions and he's… he's kind…"

She turned her face away, her cheeks reddening.

Servaas didn't want Calliope to go into further detail, in fear of what he might say in a knee-jerk reaction. '_Back in _my _day_,' he thought, '_we had a very different opinion of Muggles… but,_' he thought, _'I might just be wrong._'

Quietly, Calliope whispered, "I've caused him so much pain…"

"You meant him no pain." '_I'm getting old. I'm probably wrong._'

Again, silence. "I can't believe they're in prison. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to hope."

"It won't be easy. But we'll help each other."

"Yes…"

"I know this is a dangerous thing to say, considering our captor, but, we have each other, and we have our memories to comfort us."

Finally Calliope got up out of the chair and sat on the couch. Her Uncle watched her face until she looked at him and lightly said, "I'm glad you're teaching me wandless magic. It'll come in very useful."

He only continued to watch her. She looked away, into the shadows. Finally her uncle sighed. Slowly, he asked, "Do you love this Muggle – this man?"

Very softly, she replied, "I think that I do. Yes. I love him." She said it like she was testing out the words. "Oh, Uncle, this is all so _strange!_"

"Love is strange," Uncle said, as much to himself as to her. "But it is also patient, and kind, and good. Don't be surprised that the Death Eater doesn't understand love." To himself, he added, "I wonder if I understand it, myself."

Dora marched to Dumbledore's desk and slammed the Daily Prophet down on the mahogany surface.

"Tell me he's okay," she demanded, her eyes bright and her voice sharp. "Tell me he's okay."

Dumbledore did not need to even glance at the headline – "Werewolf Raid and Capture in Manchester." Instead, he fixed his bright blue eyes on Dora's face.

"Yes, Remus is at present slightly injured, but he will soon recover. He is fine."

Dora slumped and gave a sigh of relief. "I couldn't take it," she babbled, "if someone else…"

Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder. "Dora. Look at me. I realize that these past few days have been unimaginably difficult for you. I want to remind you that you do not have to suffer alone. I am here. Minerva is here. We must all trust and rely on each other. There's no need for you to only open your heart when your emotions reach the boiling point."

"No, Professor – I'm sorry, I overreacted, I shouldn't have—"

"There is nothing to apologize for."

"I just wanted to make sure – I guess I just went clean crazy…"

"Your actions are totally understandable."

"Thank you, Professor. I'd – best be getting on, leave you to your – um – you know – work."

"I am in no hurry, Dora. Feel free to have a seat. Take a sugar quill."

"All the same, Professor D," she nodded, giving a forced smile. She left the office as quickly as she had entered.

After she left Dumbledore put the tips of his fingers together in thought. He heaved a sigh, and at the same moment, the phoenix on his perch arched his neck down and gave a mournful keen. The old man glanced at his longtime friend and gently said, "If you think it will help, then by all means, visit her later."

A timid knock sounded at the door to Hagrid's hut. The gamekeeper gave one more prod to the fire and went to the door. Checking his crossbow (just in case), he opened it. At first he thought he saw a student – Dora Tonks had always been petite, and she looked even smaller, hunched over in the big doorway.

As she tried to say, "Wotcher, Hagrid. Can I – " he had already taken her shoulder and tugged her inside. "Come on in, Tonks, let's not be getting cold on the durestep."

"Security questions?"

"Oh, ye know I can't be keeping them questions straight in me head." His eyes twinkled. "And that's how ye know it's me. And as for whether you're you, I think I know that expression well enough. C'mon, Tonks, sit down. What brings ye here?"

She sat at the vast table and was silent for a time, then her mouth started trembling.

"Is it about that raid on the werewolves?"

"That – Dumbledore told me Remus is all right, but – that, and – Hagrid, Calliope is missing. She's gone. She was kidnapped."

"I was readin' somethin' like that in the paper. Calliope, the little quiet one that used ter come 'ere with you sometimes? The bairn of the Ollivander family?"

"Yes, she was taken away from her own home by a Death Eater – and then – her brother and friend went out to try and save her. I saw her brother earlier that day. Why didn't he come and see me? What, did he forget I'm an Auror? Why can't I save anyone – not Sirius, not Remus, not my best friend? And now the rest of them – Linus, her brother, and her Muggle friend – are in the Sycorax jail!"

Hagrid patted her on the shoulder – not a gentle gesture, but a kind one, and put a steaming mug of tea on the table before her. "There, there, cry it all out. But do explain to me what this is all about. Mebbe we can make a little more sense of it."

She told him everything she knew, and a few things she suspected, and many thing she feared. When she was done Hagrid poured her another cup of tea and offered her a plate of stone-like scones, which she declined.

The great man then spoke gently. "Tonks, ye can't be frettin' away for aye that's happened. Ye dinnae tell 'em to go right off n' rescue her, but they did, an' you woulda done the same."

"But if I had gone – "

"Ye'd have been one less guard fer the school. Yeh knew yer duty. And they knew theirs. Besides, tho' the Sycorax en't the best place fer a Muggle – or anyone – at least this way he's safe from them Death Eaters."

"But Calliope… Hagrid, the Death Eater that kidnapped her? He's an Obliviator. I know his name, but I can't bring him to a trial yet, to properly accuse him – I can't, and I have so little proof! The Ministry is happy to turn a Muggle into their scapegoat, but when it comes to one of their own…"

"Ah know how that goes. Aye, how I know." His black eyes were full of sadness.

"And, Hagrid, I know he'll keep her alive first – the Obliviator is planning something, something that really freaked out Linus – and Linus is pretty near unflappable. The Death Eater – the Obliviator – he can do awful things to her mind, practically make her into a different person." Another sob forced its way out of her.

Fang trotted to her feet and leaned his heavy black head on her knee. Automatically Dora set one hand to work scratching his ears. Then she was rubbing his head with both hands, still giving little choked sobs.

"There, there. Have yerself a good cry now."

"I'm sorry to burden you with all this."

"Oh, no. I'm more used to it than I'd like to be. Every day, almos', there's some student comes knockin' on my door, needin' someone to talk to – their neighbor's gone missing, or a parent in hospital, or even their favorite park blasted to bits – get all kind o' slurs thrown at 'em in the hallways – and they come to Ol' Hagrid. An' I've seen it all. An' Fang, he's always got the strength fer a little comfortin', even if I don't."

Dora wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. "You're a good man, Hagrid."

"Nah – nah. I just tell 'em all the same – jest what I'll tell you. Have yer cry, have yer dark nights, fer there's no shame in 'em, and I'll be here as long as you want to talk, but don't let this defeat ye. Go out with yer head held high. You'll find the strength to wear this out – and don't waste it in worryin' over what ye can't control. Mebbe it's not the best advice, but it's what me dad always told me."

"Thank you, Hagrid." Dora got off of the chair and gave Fang a hug. "And thank you for listening.'

"I may not be any Molly Weasley," he admitted, "But in a pinch, you know I'm here. Come back any time."

"Thanks." She buttoned her coat back up and walked towards the door, when Hagrid stopped her. To her surprise, she found herself wrapped up in a big hug, as gentle as Hagrid could be. She hugged him back, eyes closed.

The warmth of that hug stayed with Dora as she ran over the cold path to Hogsmeade, and it sustained her through all the night.

The very next morning she had an owl from Kingsley Shacklebolt. Once she had decoded it, it read, "Have posted a watch on the houses of the Rowle brothers. Will keep you in the loop, top priority. Remus sends you good luck. Keep faith."

Mr. Ollivander, in front of the glowing lamp, watched his niece, who stared fixedly at the dark globe in her hands. Into the silence, she said "_Lumos_." After a pause, he addressed her.

"I know this is difficult. I know. But magic with a wand was difficult when you were first learning; now you are past mistress of it."

"_Lumos_."

"Willpower. Concentration. Self-control. All magic requires these – which is why we invented wands, to aid us."

"_Lumos_."

"Picture it like the suit of Wands, in the tarot deck – the suit of power, control, self-direction, inspiration."

Silence.

"You hold your wand in your mind, Calliope. Linden. Nine and a half inches. Phoenix feather. Deceptively pliant. You know the course of direction that it gives you. Now bring that control to your hands. Bring it to the globe in your hands. Bring it to light."

There was silence and darkness.

"_Lumos_."

Then there was light.

She leaned heavily against the desk.

"I also know how taxing it is," Mr. Ollivander guided his niece to the couch. "But you've done it, my girl. As I knew you would. You learned it faster than I did."

"Thanks…" she said weakly. "Uncle, I didn't know you understood Tarot."

"Of course. The deck is quite a respectable tool of magic – and there's much about me that you don't know. You've done well, Calliope. Rest."

A guard patrolling the corridor said to the inmates, "There's a chaplain hearing confessions right about now. He comes in twice a week. Would any of you care to see him?"

"I'll go." Mark stood up, looking at the two wizards. Both shook their heads.. Mark, glad for the chance to stretch his legs, followed the guard into the mess hall. Prisoners stood in a line, waiting to get into a little tent that reminded Mark of a voting booth back home.

The prisoners in line stared at Mark contemptuously. He ignored it. He was getting used to them. What drew his attention was that some of the prisoners waited in line to see another counselor. At the other end of the mess hall, a girl in her late teens sat at a table.

Mark squinted. Was she reading Tarot cards? But that was ridiculous. Or was it, to wizards? Certainly the men (and a couple of women) sitting in front of her studied the cards as anxiously as if they meant life or death. The reader herself fixed her eyes intently on the cards, as far as Mark could see. He wondered if he should ask her a question – then stopped himself. He may be trapped in the legal roulette of a secret, magical world while the love of his life was kidnapped, but he still had his standards.

Then again…

He debated with himself the merits of a Tarot reading or not as the line moved slowly forward.

At length, he dropped the notion of a Tarot reading and asked himself what he would say to the confessor. '_Now, the Sacrament of Reconciliation_,' he thought, '_is the very last thing I expected to find in England. After wizards_.' At last the line dwindled, and the last wizard left the confession booth.

Mark opened the flap. Seeing the inside, he gasped. It was spacious – or as spacious as a confessional booth should be – dramatically lit by a single candle, and for all the world paneled in stained pine. There was a lattice window and everything necessary except for monks chanting in Latin.

The sound of a throat being cleared brought Mark back. "Ah – sorry, Father."

"No need to call me Father." The voice on the other side of the window was male and surprisingly young. "Reverend will do. Please, be seated."

Letting the flap fall (only on this side it was a fine red curtain), Mark sat before the window. He noticed two icons on the wall above him: a crucifix, and a picture of an old man, his head bowed, holding a lantern in which there danced a star. It was labeled 'The Hermit.' It reminded Mark of the Tarot cards that the girl had been reading – and reminded him that this was not normal Catholicism. What was he doing here, anyway? He was just a Muggle…

"What is on your mind?" prompted the man on the other side of the lattice.

"Oh!" Mark took a deep breath. "Bless me, Reverend, for I am innocent." He added quickly, "I know that's not the proper thing to say in Reconciliation, but it has been a while, and…"

"If I may?" the reverend interrupted. "Please – don't feel you need to confine yourself to a ritual. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen."

Mark gave a short laugh. "Gotta warn you, once you start me talking it takes me a long time to stop. Typically."

"I'm quite ready."

"I'm – I'm also really curious." Mark couldn't help himself. "Are you an actual Catholic priest?"

"Well," Mark could just make out the man's silhouette behind the lattice, "I'm a man of God, but I'm not a priest, I'm a minister. A reverend. And I'm not Catholic. I serve in the Holy Church of Christ the Magician."

"Christ the _Magician_?"

"You've never heard of it?"

"No, sorry."

"Are you Muggleborn?"

"Yes, I am," Mark said quickly.

"And American?"

"Yes…" suddenly Mark felt very uneasy.

"You wouldn't happen to be from New England, would you?"

"Utah!" Mark exclaimed. "Midwest! Mormons! Lots of Mormons there. Wizarding Mormons. I was raised a Catholic, though." He felt a stab of guilt – lying in a confessional. He would have to go to Confession for _this!_ Why couldn't he tell this man the truth?

"Okay. I was just wondering – I've heard a bit about the Presumptuous American Muggle, and, naturally, kind of wondered…"

"I just got here, sir."

"Yes. This is about you."

"And my want for reconciliation. God and I haven't been on good terms lately."

"Well, I'm good at mediating with God."

Mark paused for a long time. "I – I can't understand what's happened. It's just overthrown, everything that I thought about how the world would work. I cannot believe a loving God would let this happen."

"Ah, yes." The minister sighed.

"You probably hear that a lot these days."

"A lot. But no two stories are the same. Go on."

"But I mean it. Before God, I'm innocent. I'm innocent of everything – except maybe stupidity. And, and I know life is not fair. But I have never asked for too much. A good job. Friends I could trust. An occasional vacation someplace special, that preferably didn't end with me imprisoned… twice. But now – someone I care about deeply is in terrible trouble, and it's my fault, and no one will believe me and there's no way I can help her. No one will even listen." He added, "to tell you the whole story would take much longer than we have time for, I'm sure."

"Maybe so. And to give you a really satisfying conversation would also take more time than we have." The reverend sounded uncomfortable. "If we had time we could enter into a long discussion of the problem of evil, and the Ministry's scapegoats, and injustice, but… as we don't have much time, I want to remind you, at least, of what Christ's Beatitudes read: 'blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice…'"

"'For they shall be satisfied.'" Mark finished.

"Very good."

"But my friend…"

"I'm really sorry about that. Give me her name, and I'll file a Missing Persons report, if it hasn't been filed already."

"Okay."

"Remember, my son…"

"You're not old enough to pull a 'my son' on me."

"I know. Thought I may as well try it. My friend… remember that the ways of the Lord are mysterious. For yourself, you have to persevere. If you work yourself into an emotional frenzy you'll exhaust yourself, and you need to gather your strength for whatever is coming next. Pray for calm and fortitude – trust that God will bring good out of evil. Your innocence will eventually come to light, and…" he faltered. "I know this all sounds rather flimsy…"

"No, it makes a certain amount of sense."

"And of course – I hold a Mass and confession here every week for the prisoners. If you are having a crisis of faith, ask one of the guards to send word and I'll come as soon as I can. Here – take my card."

A little square of paper was pushed under the lattice. Mark didn't take it yet. "So all I have to do is ask for you?"

"Yes. Ask for me by name – Reverend Januarius Fell, of the Holy Church of Christ the Magician. But I'll be around just later this week."

Mark took the business card and flipped it over. There was a picture on the back – another Tarot image, he thought – labeled 'The Magician.' "That's really nice of you. Are you sure you aren't Catholic?"

"Quite sure." Januarius Fell's voice was pleasant. "The word Catholic comes from a word meaning – do you know it?"

"Universal."

"Yes. Our Church is not universal."

"How so?"

"We do not believe Muggles are capable of salvation."

Mark was speechless. Januarius Fell obviously took his silence as a sign of interest, and went on, "Muggles don't have the same sort of souls that wizards do – their souls are of a lesser degree. It's all about magic, you see. If you have magic, that is the indelible sign of God's love, and you may be saved. But Muggles…"

"I don't – how do you come to that conclusion?"

"Well, Adam was made in God's image, yes? God is the great Magician. He is the source of all life and magic and, of course, morality, so Adam had all those things, and was a wizard. That's how he was able to name all the animals and plants. But Eve was made from a part of Adam – not directly in God's image. She was the first Muggle."

Mark swallowed, his eyes wide. "And do you blame her being Muggle for the fact that she – fell to temptation?"

"You are sharp! That's – a delicate theological debate. Many people think so. I myself haven't made up my mind on the subject. But the next generation was where things really were defined."

"Cain and Abel?"

"Exactly. After Abel was slain, his blood cried out for vengeance from the earth – that's the image the Bible gives us, a very powerful one. God answered. He set the Mark on Cain – specifically, in his blood. With that, He blocked Cain and his descendants from the light and magic of God forever."

Mark didn't say anything.

"You see, it all makes sense. I'm not saying it all happened _exactly_ like that, but, that's the gist of it, that's what I believe." The reverend noticed the silence. "Are you all right?"

"I'm – I've never heard that logic before."

"Bit of a shock?" Januarius Fell asked, not unkindly "I expect you've been a bit sheltered. Well, I'll be here later this week and I can give you tracts or –"

"The Mark of Cain was meant to be a mark of protection," the prisoner stated bluntly. "God set that Mark on Cain to warn other people not to hurt him."

"Of course." Fell's voice was soothing, "And that's why it's our duty to protect Muggles – even from themselves, if possible. Of course, that relies on certain laws, boundaries, if you will, being set in place and never violated…"

"Reverend Fell, I have a confession to make." Mark interrupted.

"Um…"

"I lied to you earlier. I'm not a Muggleborn wizard. The truth is, I'm the Muggle that's been accused of Presumption." He cleared his throat. "My name is Mark Printzen."

"_What_?"

"I've never even been to Utah. And I shouldn't have lied. I'm sorry."

Now it was the reverend's turn for shocked silence.

"Listen, I _am_ innocent. And if you give me a minute I can explain everything."

From what Mark could see of the silhouette, it looked like Reverend Fell was resting his forehead on his hand. "I cannot ask you to leave a confessional booth. But I think that if you stay here, neither one of us will benefit at all."

"Can't I tell you why I'm innocent?"

"It's not going to do you any good."

"You're not going to listen to me because suddenly you think I don't have a soul – just because I can't do magic?"

"There's no need to lose your temper."

"I – am – not – losing – my temper. I just want you to understand my point of view. I'm innocent. I would never, ever hurt Calliope Ollivander. I'm her friend." After a pause, "Are you listening to me?"

No response came from the other side of the confessional. But Mark heard a clack of beads.

"Are you praying the _rosary_ to get out of talking to me?" he demanded.

No answer.

"You know, for a priest you're doing a crummy job of making me feel empathy for my fellow man."

A tap sounded from outside the cell. Mark thought it was someone outside his door, but then realized it was on the reverend's side.

"Jan," said a small voice, a girl's voice. "Jan, something's going on. I'm worried…"

Mark opened the door to the confessional – at the same time as the Reverend Januarius Fell did. They looked at each other, with the same expression of surprise and disapproval. Januarius Fell had a pointed face, mousy brown hair, and spectacles. Around his neck hung a rectangular medallion with the image of the Magician on one side, and a cross on the other.

"Can you hear it?" the girl asked. Both of the men looked at her. She was the same girl who had been reading Tarot cards earlier – she still clutched her cards in her hands. She must have been Januarius' sister – darker hair, but the same features. Also, Mark saw, both of them had shoulders that were noticeably uneven.

"Listen, Jan!" she said. And now Mark heard it: there was a distant screaming elsewhere in the jail.

A guard strode up to Mark. "If you're done with confession, you should come back with me to your cell."

"What's going on?" Mark asked.

"We've got some – very difficult new arrivals. Some will be lodging in the Muggle wing."

"_What_?"

"Which is why I rather insist you come with me so we don't have to meet them. And you, Reverend Fell, I suggest you get out of here soon as you can."

"All right." Mark followed the guard, taking just a backwards look at the reverend and his sister.

When Mark was brought back to his cell, Linus was already at the door, asking "What is that sound?"

The screaming could be heard echoing far down the halls. It got closer and closer.

"I don't know," Mark said honestly as the door was shut behind him. The guard hurried off. The noise died off for a time, but soon began again.

Presently, the screams, hollers of protests, and shrieks grew louder, along with the tromp of boots. All three men looked to stare at the new arrivals as they were dragged past.

Of all of them, not one looked older than seventeen. All were fighting furiously to escape their captors, to no avail. All of them bore scars of scratches and – bites?

There were three young men – one tall and tattooed, one thick and muscular, who tried to brawl his way out, and a short one with unkempt and uncut black hair, whose cries were low and loud, more like howls. The last was a girl. She had dark brown hair cut very short and a wiry frame. She swore loudly at the prison guards in Spanish.

The three boys were locked into two separate cells (the howling boy had a cell to himself) on one side of the wall. The girl was imprisoned in the cell next to Mark, Linus, and Hector.

Once all the doors were locked shut, the guards took out their wands and intoned, in unison, "_Silencio_."

A ringing silence fell where there had been noise. The prison guards started back down the hall. As one commented, "Not often you see this wing filled up –" Hector stood up and went to the door.

"Excuse me, but could you explain what this all's about?"

One of the guards stopped. "Recent captives – Muggle punks – from Fenrir Greyback's gang." He shook his head. "Werewolves, the lot of them. And there's more stored in the wizard's section. Prisons are getting pretty crowded."

After the guard had left, Mark asked, "Werewolves?"

"Don't get any romantic ideas," Linus said, holding up a warning finger. "Werewolves are bloodthirsty, vicious, and dangerous. Everything bad you've ever heard about them is true."

"Circe's cup," Hector whispered. "I don't want to spend the night surrounded –"

"I know," Linus agreed, "but what are we going to do?"

"Aren't werewolves only violent at—" Mark dropped his question when a round of stomping, clapping, and slamming sounded from the cells with the teenagers. Evidently they were seeing just how much noise they could make without using their voices.

Linus took Mark's shoulder. "Look, _technically_, yes, they're only dangerous at the full moon. But, these guys are from a pack. Fenrir Greyback is absolutely insane. He's feral. When _they_ live in packs, they get very –"

"Unstable," Hector offered.

"Very. The latent violent tendencies that they have as humans are brought to the fore. They have less self-control –"

"They're less _human_," Hector blurted.

"Are you sure?" Mark replied.

"Everyone knows that, who knows anything about werewolves." Linus said firmly, brushing dust off of his prison robe (a dull orange, faded and stiff). "So how was your visit with the chaplain?"

"Um..." Mark looked to the door again, and the sound of the werewolves continued to echo.

"Ignore them," Linus said.

"The chaplain. He's a reverend, actually. In a church that is oddly Catholic, except for the parts where he thinks Muggles are scum. I don't like him very much."

"Did you get his name?" Hector asked.

"Yeah..." Mark took out his card. "Januarius Fell."

"Fell? Januarius Fell? Here?" Hector sat up.

"You know him?"

"Oh, sure. He's a really good friend of Tess."

"Tess is friends with..." Linus remembered, "Oh, right, Tess found religion."

"Yes, she did, and Jan is one of her best friends. He does a lot of volunteer work. He's really nice... to wizards," he added, on Mark's glare. "Was Julietta there?"

"I'm... guessing that's his sister who reads Tarot cards?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah, she was there. But they left when the werewolves arrived."

"Oh! Of course... naturally... I mean, you can't expect them to hang around with... werewolves. No... Julietta's a fragile sort... I'll stop talking now."

And they dropped the subject, to everyone's relief. And then the guards arrived to try and quiet down the teenage werewolves. It wasn't until later that night when Mark had the chance to think, '_Everyone knows that Muggles are ignorant, backwards, selfish brutes. Anyone who knows anything about Muggles_.'

"Tonight," Thorfinn said as he came home, holding out two vials of sleeping potion to his brother.

"Tonight," Turpin had repeated, holding the bottles in his hand lightly.

"Tonight," Blodwen had sighed with relief in front of her bedroom mirror.

Corky had obediently stirred the potions into the soup for the captives, and fed it to them. Neither Mr. Ollivander nor his niece noticed anything – except a slightly sweet aftertaste that was unusual for tomato soup. They both fell asleep too quickly to notice the suddenness of their drowsiness. And in the night, Mr. Ollivander was taken away – very quietly, effectively, and without undue fuss, just how T.R. liked it.

He felt a pang of regret, knowing he was very likely seeing the last of Mr. Ollivander, but quashed it. He went to bed himself, as soon as the hubbub had died own. He had a busy day ahead of him.

Mr. Ollivander woke up slowly, heavily, in a strange new prison. He knew not if it was day or night. He was alone.

At first he took it for granted – then he realized that Calliope _should_ be there – and then he realized that she was not. He felt in his breast pocket for his notebook – but it, too, was gone.

He bowed his head.

He whispered, low and clear, "God bless you, Calliope, my dear. God bless you and keep you."

Calliope woke up slowly, heavily. She was having a strange dream, where her hands could summon a gigantic wave of water, but the water surrounded her and froze into a glassy prison – and trapped in the ice she could make out the figures of those she loved – she forced herself to wake up.

"Uncle?"

Silence.

"Uncle?" she called louder. She stumbled off of the desk to look for him on the couch. He was not there. But her foot kicked something small. She bent down and groped in the darkness – and found it. It was a tiny notebook.

She groped for a lamp, concentrated hard, "_Lumos_," and there was light. Good. She huddled close to read the words. It was Uncle Servaas' handwriting, his words, his faint hope of rescue, his desperately scribbled notes about Benedicte Ollivander. Then, at the last, his note saying they had brought Calliope. "She sleeps. Childlike."

Calliope lowered the notebook. The silence and emptiness of the room seemed unbearable.

She picked it up again and held it as she paced back and forth around the tiny space. "He's not coming back. He knew it. He's not coming back. But they won't kill him. They need him. They need his knowledge. They just moved him. Yes. Yes. This makes sense. He's still alive – he _will_ still be alive – long enough."

There was a quill on the table. Calliope searched vigorously through the drawers until she found an inkpot – old, but unopened. She broke the seal and dipped the quill in the pot. She carefully wrote in the notebook, leaving a single line after his last note:

"I will find you. No matter what." Then she signed her full name.

She closed the book and pushed it away so her tears wouldn't stain the pages.

First thing in the morning, Turpin opened the door to the basement. Inside, Servaas' grand-niece paced back and forth in fury. "Just you wait," she said when she saw him, her voice cold, "I'll tell the world about this when I'm out, my uncle told me all about you, your job, your family, I'll find him, then I'll find you and we—"

"_Obliviate_."

Her eyes unfocused. She blinked slowly a couple of times, and then came to. She looked around, startled. "How did I get – " she saw Turpentine. "_You_! Thief! You stole Benedicte's memories – how dare you—"

"Yes, I did," he said shortly, "and I'll let you choose, Miss: shall I 'steal' your memories of Benedicte now or later?"

Calliope stumbled backwards and seemed to shrink, even though she and Turpentine were the same height. Hours of sleeplessness and fear flooded upon her without the comfort of memory, and she could just collect herself enough to stand steady and say, "Later."

Turpentine sighed. "Just as well then."

As he mounted the stairs, he couldn't resist turning to say, "And by the way, Miss Ollivander – you're very fond of that filthy Muggle, aren't you?"

He smiled at her expression, at the way her hands immediately balled into fists, and said, "A pure-blooded young lady like yourself… throwing yourself away on him… tsk tsk. I can't help but wonder, what would your dear uncle say?"

And he was at the top of the stairs. He closed the door, leaving her in silence and darkness.

The first day of captivity was long.

Enough sunlight leaked into the little room for Calliope to explore and investigate. The business folders in the desk drawer would not open without a password, but she found a stack of business cards advertising "Blodwen Gwyneodd." Calliope remembered the Gwyneodd Family vaguely – Welsh, wine dealers – and wondered what the Death Eater's connection to them was. There was a corner stuffed with old children's books, loved long ago but now discarded.

For some reason which she herself could not determine, the lamps on the desk drew her and fascinated her. They had a light shroud of dust, but there were brushes as though someone had touched them recently. She made a note and investigated the small door to one side – it was a water closet with a sink and mirror.

Looking into the mirror gave her a shock. She had _not_ been so pale – so ill-looking – yesterday, at Hollywyck! Had the shock been that bad? Had she been given a poison?

She wasn't sure – the place felt weirdly, achingly familiar, but she was sure she'd never seen it before…

The day passed slowly.

That night, Turpin Rowle entered the little office again. He expostulated for some time about science and expanding the borders of knowledge. At length he drew out his wand. "Miss Ollivander, The path I'm to take is clear. If it's secondary source memories I must erase, then I'll erase them. And look who I've got here but a nice bank of them. But first I'm going to make sure – " he drew his wand out of his pocket, and like a wave was back above her again, "that this is as easy as possible…"

He pointed the wand at her and she seized up, feeling the Full Body Bind take effect.

"See? I'm learning," he said as he produced more bottles from out of nowhere and stood over her on the couch.

"But of course, resistance of the body is very little compared to resistance of the mind. I'm going to make you a deal, little lady."

Now he knelt, with some difficulty, on the floor by her head. She could feel his breath, and this revolted her beyond expression. '_I hope you see all of this disgust_, _all this hatred, when you look in here_—'

"Listen to me. Do you know that your brother, Linus, your cousin, Hector, and your Muggle are all imprisoned now, on account of you?"

No, she didn't. And he knew that.

"It looks like they might be on their way to Azkaban, for varying lengths of time. Unless, perhaps, their high-ranking, respected plaintiff steps forward and intervenes. Unless I put in a good word for them." He smiled. "But what reason would I have to do that, if you were difficult with me in any way?

"The deal is simple. Cooperate with me, and your friends will go free. Make my work more difficult, and not only will you suffer far more than is strictly necessary, but your darling Muggle will be old and bent before he walks under a free sky again. Do you understand?" He paused. I'll give you a minute to think it over."

After a minute, "Do you accept?"

She couldn't speak, but he saw the answer in her gray eyes, and smiled.

"Benedicte Ollivander. _Leglimens._"

Deft as an acrobat, he shifted through the ring of memory evoked by that phrase until he found –

_Benedicte's bedroom – the first time she had explored it._

_It was the secret door, the door in Calliope's bedroom. She had opened it, copying the "Alohomora" spell that her father had used. The door opened with a loud creak._

_The room was quiet, with the bright red curtain, and the paintings of Chinese animals. For an hour, two hours, three, Callie looked at every photograph, picked up and felt every figurine, in reverent silence._

_This was Benedicte, gathered by her own hands, cherished in her life, all that she had left behind._

Calliope was aware that Turpentine's left hand was on her head, pressed with all the poise of a surgeon. His wand was at her temple. He pulled it away.

If she could have screamed, she would have – she felt a needlelike pain as the memory was displaced, extracted – no, no, she loved that memory, don't take it away – Her balance spun as she realized that the Death Eater was done. Into one bottle it went, a white coil of fog, and Turpentine corked the bottle carefully, and then checked her pulse.

"Normal," he muttered. "You're in good shape. I'll fetch us some water." Upstairs he went, and came down with the glasses of water. He waved his wand and Calliope felt the Full-Body Bind loosen, just enough for her to open her mouth and swallow some. He checked his watch. "I suspect that's been long enough," he said, and put the glasses aside. He knelt over her again and put his wand to her temple and his hand on her head. "This time I'll do two at once. Benedicte Ollivander. _Leglimens_."

_Calliope ran along the blue, scratchy carpet and into the parlor. She climbed onto the couch opposite Mummy. "Yes, Mummy? What is it?"_

_Mum's legs were folded in front of her, and Callie swung her little legs into Mum's lap. How lovely it was to sit like this! _

"_Calliope, dear," Mum said seriously, "you asked me earlier about who Benedicte was. You already know a little, yes?" _

_Callie nodded. "She came before Linus and I, and died before I could remember her."_

"_Yes, that's true. I'm going to tell you more about her, so you know. She was your godmother…"_

Calliope felt the memory being pulled away, and tried to cling to it –

"_You know, dearie, of all the choices I've made – that your father and I made – one right one was naming you Calliope Blithe. You have been nothing if not a joy to me." Callie folded herself into her mother's arms… _Don't take this away…

Calliope didn't remember what happened after that.

When she woke up, it was late morning, and she was alone in an office. There were two slices of toast laid out for her.

Once she had eaten – quickly, like an animal in the wild – she took stock of her situation. Now she had nothing left to do but wait…

And to try desperately not to be bored.

When she had read almost an entire shelf of the books, and couldn't stand to read any more, she reorganized everything on the desk, arranged the books by color, and overturned the couch cushions.

She stopped. A small black notebook – could have fit in the palm of her hand – lay there among the lint and coins. She took it up at once and set the couch to rights again.

Then she sat on the couch and started to read the notebook.

"_My name is Servaas Ollivander, and this is the first day of my captivity_."

Her breathing became very shallow. She brought the book closer to try and read in the best light possible. She knew every trick and tip of that methodical, slightly swerving cursive.

The notes were not many. They didn't sound coherent. There he strung together bits of the family lullaby. The abbreviations he used were almost incomprehensible. But he was worried about his memories of Benedicte. He knew what was happening to him. She flipped another page – and the door opened.

She stuffed the book between the couch cushions hurriedly. A middle-aged house-elf tottered into the room, carrying a tray with two sandwiches on it and two glasses of water. The house-elf, who wore a striped pillowcase, blinked at Calliope.

"Eh, wot," he grumbled, "So there's one gone."

He left the room quickly, so Calliope had no time to make him stay, to ask him who he belonged to, why –

Why there was food and drink for two on the tray.

She would have puzzled over the question, but she was too hungry to worry. She ate the simple bread and cheese sandwich, and wrapped the other one in a napkin and set it aside for later. Now – back to the notebook. She felt a little shiver as she picked it up again. Uncle had held this – written in it – he had likely been in this very room!

She opened up to the next page. "T—took my blood. Will use it to reach H." (That must mean Turpentine and Hollywyck.) Then, on the next line, "Calliope is here."

She stared at those words.

"What?"

The exclamation broke the silence of the room. She turned to the next page. "Stunned. T. is moving." She began reading, the sense of the words sinking in only slowly. "L., H, and a M in Syc. Teaching C. Wandless magic. Wwx school." That was probably the Weatherwax school, of which Calliope knew nearly nothing – or did she?

"This will not last long." The book visible trembled as she approached the last page.

Then, in her own writing, she read the words "I will find you," with her signature.

She put the book down slowly. And, all alone, she began to shiver.

* * *

><p>Postscript: A final note: the character of Januarius Fell is in no way supposed to represent my views on religion or priests. No. He's a character, not a statement. I'm not bashing any faith or praising it.<p>

ETA: I honestly thought I fixed the formatting. This is getting annoying. I shall implement stern formatting from now on. I apologize for the inconvenience up to now.


	3. Beren and Luthien

**Chapter Three – Beren and Luthien**

A/N: This week the Canon Guest Stars are – well, actually they're Tolkien characters. Yes, the entire myth of Beren and Luthien is taken from J.R. R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. But Mark acknowledges it – because Mark is a not-so-clandestine Tolkien fanboy.

I don't own _The Silmarillion _either. What are the odds?

Also, I am trying out new formatting this chapter. I apologize profusely to my readers for a complete lack of transitions up to this point. I am more than a little annoyed with for this. Let's see how well the new guys work.

* * *

><p>ooo<p>

T.R. did not return to his own home. Instead he elected to move in indefinitely with his brother and sister-in-law. "For security reasons."

Just as a schedule had developed around old Mr. Ollivander, he crafted a schedule around young Miss Ollivander. Immediately after dinner with his family, he would retreat down to the cellar, where he now kept all his requisite supplies. He would enter Blodwen's old office, and extract a memory from "the new subject." Then he would return back upstairs for a drink and quality time with his official paperwork before retiring to a night's rest.

As for Calliope, she read. It wasn't long before she had finished every book on those shelves. In particular, she devoted herself to "Elemental Magic in Dueling and Defense," another copy of the book Dora had given her. But when night fell, she would steel herself as best she could before another memory was wrenched away from her. Each time, it seemed, a bit of her strength and will was sapped away, too.

She wished she could assure herself with the idea that Mark, Linus, and Dora were working day and night to rescue her. But Turpin reminded her every night that the men were in prison on account of her, and it was only through her sacrifice that they might be helped. As for Dora… did Dora even know that she was kidnapped?

Logically, she should, but in the dark and solitary office, often logic lost its way.

But despite all this, Calliope seemed to hear a voice urging her to save her strength, to wait for the opportune moment, though it didn't say what to do when it arrived.

So she waited. And in dread, every night, she heard the footsteps coming down the stairs.

ooo

In the Sycorax, the lights were down and no moonlight striped the floor, but Mark couldn't sleep. He leaned against the wall between his cell and that of the screaming newcomers. Before lights out, Hector had said that the Silencing Charms had worn off by that point.

Mark stretched out his legs. The tight quarters were getting to him.

He sighed, and when the sound faded, he heard a sound from next door. The girl was sobbing.

He waited and tried to figure out what to do. Then he asked, as carefully and casually as he could, "Hey there. Can't sleep?"

The sobbing stopped. Then a voice – rather scratchy from so much hollering – shortly answered, "Obviously not."

"It's okay," Mark put on a smile, even though the newcomer couldn't see him, "I can't sleep, either."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, we have something in common."

"We have _nothing_ in common. You're just another _wizard_."

"I'm not. I'm a Muggle. Just like you."

A pause. "You're nothing like me. You're not a _werewolf_." She spat out the last word with an almost tangible bitterness. Mark was quiet for a long time. She replied, with an empty note of triumph, "You see? Speechless. No human wants to talk with a werewolf."

"On the contrary," Mark persisted, "I never run out of things to say. My friends all agree on this. You know, typical American."

She paused again, then asked, "What state?"

"Massachusetts. Boston. Home of that famous tea party. Lots of good stuff."

"How did you get here?"

"I was arrested for trying to be a wizard." he said lightly. He'd grown used to the idea.

"Why were you doing that?"

"That's the thing, I wasn't. I'm innocent." He heard a sigh on the other side, then silence. '_Not as innocent as you,_' he thought. "My name's Mark – Mark Printzen. And yours?"

"I'm – I'm called Windchase in the pack."

"Windchase?"

"Because I, I run so fast, y'see, I'm really good at… at…" she trailed off as if ashamed.

"But what's the name your parents gave you? I'd like to know. Please."

There was a long pause. Mark feared for a moment he'd lost her. Then she said – something. It was so soft Mark couldn't distinguish it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

A bit louder, "Guadalupe Santos."

"What a beautiful name. Guadalupe – like our Lady of Guadalupe?"

A pause, then she said, "Yes, I'm sorry. I nodded and forgot you couldn't see me."

"It's fine. It's fine. I suppose you're Catholic too, then?"

"Yes – my parents are, at least."

"So am I. It's very good to meet you, Guadalupe."

"It's good to meet you too, Mr.…"

"Printzen. But you can call me Mark, if you like."

"… All right, then. Mark."

After a long time, he ventured, "Still can't sleep?"

"No. I don't … no, can't sleep."

"Say no more. Shall I tell you a story?"

"Eh. Sure, why not. If you want."

"I would like to. What do you want? Long? Short? Funny? Sad?"

"Boring. Something that'll put me to sleep. I don't want any happy endings."

"Ah…" a glance at the fake window in his cell gave Mark an idea. "Do you know the Lay of the Silmarils?"

"What's that?"

"It's a myth, set down by a brilliant Englishman named J.R.R. Tolkien."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Well… once upon a time – far away, to the True West – before the Sun and Moon were set in the sky – "

"I get it, a long time ago…"

"The master smith of the elves, Fëanor, crafted three jewels. They were the Silmarils, and Fëanor's masterpiece…"

"What did they look like?"

"Well – it's never specified exactly, but I personally pictured them pretty large – big enough to fill up one grown man's hand. And teardrop-shaped. They glowed from within of their own light, for theirs was the light of heaven – of the two Trees – "

"What trees?"

" – and of Ilúvatar himself, the great Creator, the Singer. As for the trees, I'll explain in a minute. The Silmarils were white – clear – holding all colors – but I always thought that when they were all brought together, that each had a color of its own: one, a deep, sanguine red, the next, the blue of the deep sea, and the last, a gold as shining as wheat in a field."

"You talk like they were alive."

"In their own way, they were. Oh, they were. But do you want a story or not?"

"Oh, sure, I do. Okay. Go on. I won't interrupt again."

ooo

Linus woke up with a quiet gasp that he hoped no one else had heard. His dream was fading fast. All that he could recall now was a labyrinth, filled with statues – statues that would kill you as soon as you looked away –

His dream faded even more quickly when he realized that Mark was talking. He was talking about two trees that gave light, and then about a giant spider and a horrible rebel angel who destroyed the trees, but that was okay because there were three jewels that held the essence of the trees… but then the jewels were stolen too…

It didn't make any sense to Linus. But soon the nonsense resolved itself into a recognizable story: The rebel angel, the fall of the people who were once pure and good, the creation of the world. When Mark described the vow taken by the sons of Fëanor – to let nothing in heaven or earth stop them from retrieving the jewels that were their fathers' masterpieces, Linus gave a shiver. He recognized the horror of a vow like that, but at the same time he sympathized with the poor, depleted sons.

At some point Hector whispered up to him, "Hey, are you awa—"

"Ssh!"

ooo

With finality, Mark came to the end of part one of the story – he'd forgotten just how long this particular story was. "And Morgoth set the Silmarils into his crown, and for centuries they gleamed there, the ultimate show of his power and majesty." He paused for dramatic effect.

"_Tch_! That's awful!"

"What? I thought you were asleep by now."

"No-o-o. You're not gonna just _leave_ it there, are you?"

"You said you didn't want a happy ending."

"I don't want a goddamn hellscape with _el Diablo_ –"

"Lower your voice, please…"

"Sorry – but Morgoth is _el Diablo_, the Devil, right?"

"Yeah. Basically."

"With _him_ all triumphant and shit with the super-all important jewels. He doesn't stay that way forever, right?"

"No."

"Good! That's more like it!" Mark was surprised at her vehemence. "Jesus, him and his giant spider, th'idea of him winning – _tch!_ So what happens next? How did he lose his precious jewels? Ha! C'mon, how?"

"Well, it _is_ a long story."

"Nah."

"This was just part one. And I'm getting pretty tired. And I think you are, too."

"Nah."

"I can hear it in your voice. But, I can tell you how the change _begins_."

"Oh yeah?"

"It starts…" Mark stopped. The memory of the next story flooded over him. For a moment it seemed entirely too intimate to share.

"Hey, you there?"

"Oh. It starts with a young man. He's not an elf, or a Valar, or dwarf – not even a hobbit – but a mortal man. He was the last survivor of a resistance against Morgoth, led by his father. He'd wandered alone through a dark and haunted forest, plagued by phantoms of the past. He wandered on, and on, solitary. Then, one moonlit night, this young man stepped into a grove. And in that grove…"

"What?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow night."

"Aw!"

"He saw that which started his adventure."

"Okay. Was it a sword?"

"No."

"Was it a girl?"

A long pause. "Yes. Now go to sleep!"

"Okay, fine."

"Goodnight, Guadalupe."

"Goodnight – Mark."

ooo

The next day, Hector had a visitor. He sat at a table on one side of a glass wall, fortified with charms. Opposite him sat his sister, Tess. She didn't look away from his face.

"Well, Mum sends her love. She's very worried, but she believes in your innocence, so she believes you'll be at least – well-off enough that she can pay bail. She says don't worry, she'll pay."

Hector shook his head, his uncut blond hair falling into his face. "I don't want to be a burden…"

"Hector, you know we're fine with money. _I_ will pay bail."

"Thank you, Tess."

"What I want to know is, are you okay in jail? Are they treating you all right?"

"Yeah…" Hector shrugged. "It's not as bad as it could be. We're in the Muggle wing, which is practically empty, except for these werewolves."

"_What_?"

"Don't worry, Tess, they're just teenagers."

"Even worse!"

"Muggle teenagers. One of them, Mark has actually kind of made friends with."

She leaned forward and whispered, "From Fenrir Greyback's pack?"

"Yeah."

She sat back, a revolted look on her face. "You keep a safe distance from them, you hear? What about your cell?"

"It's okay. It expands for the number of people in it. I mean, I miss my privacy, but we're not edging each other out for elbow room."

"And Linus and the Muggle guy – are you all getting along?"

"Yeah. They fight with each other more than they have any problem with me." He gave a thin smile, which Tess didn't return.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

Hector frowned, then looked around. No one else was in hearing range. He lowered his voice. "There _is_ something…"

"Then tell me."

He took a deep breath. "The guy whose house we broke into – the Death Eater – visited us recently."

"He did? How dare he! Why didn't you report him?"

"He's a high politician in the Ministry! And keep your voice down! The official story is still that the three of us were Confunded, deluded, and I don't know what else."

"You should have at least _tried_."

"_Tess_! Please, I'm not yet done with the story."

"Okay. Finish it."

"He saw the three of us individually. He spent a longer time with Mark and Linus than with me. They were both really freaked out when they came back. I've never seen Linus so upset."

She raised her eyebrows. "What did he do?"

"Tess, he's blackmailing us."

"_No_." She leaned forward. "To do what?"

"He says he has Calliope taken captive."

"And why aren't you testifying against him now?"

"We _are_, Tess!" He shouted in frustration. His outburst caused everyone in the foyer to turn and stare. He shrunk down in his chair, his face scarlet. He blinked back tears of anger as he went on in a furious murmur, "We try and try and every single day we saw what happened, but he's got protection, he's a goddamn Omniamnist, and he's a crony of Umbridge and Scrimgeour!"

"Scrimgeour is in with this guy? A Death Eater?"

"I'm sure he doesn't know, but he's protecting him all the same. It's really – _freaking_ – aggravating. But, anyway," Hector took a deep breath and went on, "Blackmail. He has Calliope captive. He says he'll only let her go if we all plead guilty. Especially if Mark pleads guilty."

"But you don't have to worry about that," Tess assured him. "Only Linus and the Muggle guy have—"

"I stole Calliope's wand from evidence, and they found it on me when I tried to break into the Death Eater's house," Hector cut in abruptly.

His sister just stared, then said, "You're a fecking idiot, Hector."

"I didn't know what would happen to the wand! That was one our Uncle made, and he gave it to her. It had to be kept."

"What if only Printzen – that's his name, right? – pleaded guilty?"

"And got sent to Azkaban."

"Maybe that'd be enough. He probably just wants _him_ in prison."

"Mark knows that. And it kills him. Linus knows this Death Eater, too. There's bad blood there. But none of us wants to lie under oath."

She glared at his hands, thoughtfully. "Have you told anyone else, anyone at all?'

"No. Not yet. Just you."

"Do you know what would happen if you told an authority?"

After a pause, he murmured, "More of the same. Linus says we have to remain united."

"Well, then, plead guilty by any means. Throw yourselves away. It'd be as easy as abracadabra."

"We don't know, sis! That's the truth. We don't know."

"I say, plead not guilty. You can't negotiate with a Death Eater, and that's the truth. But give me his name"

"What?"

"Just tell me his name."

"What are you going to do, attack him?"

"Ssh! No, of course I won't do that. But I want to know."

"It's Turpin Rowle. It's not a secret." He saw his sister mouthing the name to herself, and frowned. "Tess, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing! Maybe just find him and – talk to him."

"Please don't cause more trouble."

"Look. No one messes with my baby brother and gets away with it. I want him to know that. There's still this trial to look forward to, but he is _not_ getting away scot-free."

"Just don't – do anything stupid."

"Okay." She smiled. "Don't worry. I'm just looking out for my brother."

She put her hand to the glass, and he put his hand to the other side.

ooo

"I'm here; you don't have to keep tapping the walls."

"Okay. Sorry. I was trying for Morse Code."

"Unfortunately, I don't know it."

"Me neither. So! Beren's walking into this grove…"

"Yes. And by moonlight and starlight…" Mark sighed. This moment, and how to describe it, had been haunting him all day. "He beheld an elf maiden. She was the daughter of a high king, but he didn't know that. All he knew was that she was… the most beautiful of all the children of Iluvatar that ever were, or that ever will be."

"That nice, huh?" Guadalupe sounded quite unromantic on her end. "What did she look like, then?"

Mark closed his eyes. "She was tall and willowy, graceful in every motion. Her hair was long, straight, and black. Her face held a light of intelligence and gentleness. And her eyes were – they were silver, and had a charm all their own. You can look at them a thousand times, and they never stop surprising you." He paused, looking out the window, wishing, praying, fearing.

"Yeah? So then what happened? Did she see him?"

"No. She was dancing to the music of the nightingales. She was so beautiful that he was – well, enchanted. He couldn't move a muscle. But at the first sign of dawn she slowed her dancing and left the glade."

"And he was in love with her already, I bet."

"Yes."

"He saw her again, right?"

"He stayed in the orchard and slept soundly for the first time since his father's murder."

"Wait, murder? You didn't mention that."

"Sure I did. Don't change the subject."

"Fine."

"He awoke again at twilight, fearing he'd dreamed up the dancing girl. But at moonrise, when the nightingales started to sing, she returned."

"Did he get her name?"

"_No_, he didn't get her name. The way you say it, it's like you expect him to have her phone number, too. No, he didn't know her name. But he watched her dancing again, and felt that his soul was healed…"

"What is he, some kind of stalker?"

"No, he's not a stalker! Look, it's Middle-Earth. It's Once Upon A Time. The rules of love aren't the same as they are nowadays. They were much simpler."

"Look, love at first sight is all well and good, but he should talk to her."

"He did."

"Oh really? When?"

"Right when she was leaving – "

"Took him that long to work up the nerve?"

"Will you let me finish?"

"… yessir."

"When he saw that she was leaving again, he couldn't bear it. So he called out a word to try and hold her – Tinúviel."

"Tinsel-what?"

"Tinúviel. It means 'nightingale.'"

"Was that her name?"

"It was the name he gave to her. She stopped and turned around, looking for him, but then she was called away by her kinsmen. The next night – again, he awoke, waited, and she arrived. This time he called to her, 'Tinúviel.' She heard. She turned around, and she saw him there. He was – well, not much to look at. But she fell in love with him. And because she did… well…"

"What?"

"'And doom fell on Tinúviel,' that in his arms lay glistening.'"

"Hm. Did he ever find out her real name?"

"Yes. It was Lúthien."

"And what's that?"

"It means 'enchantress.'"

ooo

"Linus, wake up. C'mon. I know you're awake." Mark tried to shake the Obliviator lightly.

"Go away."

"I need to talk to the two of you. And this is the only time today that there's not a guard." Mark checked the door again – coast clear.

"How do you have any energy left? Far as I could tell you were making up stories all night."

"I am _not _making up these stories. Except, okay, I did make up the bit with the sharks. But that's not the point."

"What _is_ it?"

"Escape. We have got to escape."

"Can we not? I need to sleep."

"You sleep all the time."

"I try to, but can't, because you're talking all day and night!"

"Listen. I was thinking."

"Did you think about this? Where will we _go_ if we escape again? I say _if_."

"We worked it out the first time, we can do it again. If we band together with the werewolves in the other cells – they're sleeping now – I'm sure that enough of us could pull off a decent try, maybe diversion, divide and conquer – "

"You are out of your mind. And I am _not_ working with werewolves."

Mark fumed. "Well, then, screw you! I'd rather work with them than with you, anyway."

"Shut up. You only say that because you're an ignorant – you don't know _anything_ – you have no idea of how things are. You appear to know plenty about the world of Beren and Luthien, but not _this _one –"

"Don't trash Middle-Earth, all right? At least I'm thinking of escape, unlike you. What good is a wizard if he doesn't even use magic?"

Linus sat up. "Listen very carefully. We. Don't. Have. Our. Wands."

"And you can't just _make_ them?"

"You don't even know how _thick_ you are! You need fresh wood and cores to make wands! Why do I even bother? God! I should have just modified your memory the first time I saw you. Everyone would be happier."

"Guys…" Hector tried to intervene.

"And you would've gone on working for a terrorist!"

"And Calliope wouldn't be kidnapped!"

"That was your fault and you know it – you left us when we needed you! And now you do nothing to try and save your own sister! All you do is sleep!"

"You ever try living five days without more than an hour's sleep at a time?"

"You think I can sleep any better knowing that Calliope is in the hands of a mind-changing terrorist?"

"_Please stop shouting!_" Hector yelled. "I know we're all anxious, but shouting makes nothing better, so just shut up!" He turned away from them, muttering, "This had better not become a regular thing, you hear me?"

It did.

ooo

That following Sunday, Reverend Januarius Fell set up his confessional booth in the prison cafeteria again, with the help of a guard, while on the other end of the wide room his sister spread out a tablecloth and laid her Tarot deck by her side. She folded her hands and cleared her mind.

From across the room she saw her brother exchanging words with one of the guards. She knew what it was, probably: the usual warning about "Keep an eye on my sister, she's very trusting, make sure no one gives her any trouble." Rubbish. She could take care of herself. And the cards would warn her if there was trouble afoot.

Prisoners were filed into the room. The reader recognized many of them from her previous visits to this jail. They all addressed her respectfully: "If you please, Miss Fell…" "If it en't too much trouble, Miss Fell…" "I've got a problem, Miss Fell, if I could ask you…" And her smile was as unfailing and ready as her cards.

After about an hour, her little line had run out, and she took a drink of hot chocolate from her little flash. '_Tarot readings really can take it out of you_,' she thought. As she shook her head to clear away the rather troubling reading that a querent from fifteen minutes ago had received, a shadow fell over the table.

A voice with an American accent asked, rather hesitantly, "Is this where… um… you do Tarot readings, right?"

"Of course." She looked up at the man, and recognized his hazel eyes and brown hair at once. "Oh! You're the man that was seeing Jan – my brother – in the confessional last Wednesday. Right before we were told to leave."

He blinked at her. "Um. Yes. That's really good." He sat down opposite her. "I mean, I wouldn't have been able to place you, and I'm good at remembering faces."

She just gave a little smile. "Thank you. Are you from the States?"

"Yes." The man frowned slightly. "In fact, I want to tell you now. I'm Mark Printzen, the American Muggle on trial here for Presumption, I'm-sure-you've-heard-of-me. If you have a problem with that, I'll leave right now." He added, rather angrily, "Your brother had a problem with that."

She frowned at the way he spoke about her brother, but she also saw how nervous he was. She took the cards in her hands: they were neutral, calming, and she took a cleansing breath. "If you have a question, I will do my best to answer it, Mr. Printzen. Have you ever had a Tarot reading before?"

"Once… in college." He eyed the cards in her hands dubiously.

"Well, consider this a fresh start. My name is Julietta Fell." She held out her hand, and he shook it, a bit surprised.

"All right. Please, take the cards, and shuffle them to the best of your ability. Have a question in mind – as vague or as specific as you like."

"I remember the principle… yeah. I just have to watch out for the Happy Squirrel card."

Julietta gave him a very strange look. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Never mind; never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about. Do I have to tell you the question?"

"It helps." The man shuffled the cards and laid them out, as Julietta instructed. "Now, what is your question?"

He took a deep breath. "I have a friend. She's been kidnapped by a Death Eater. I want to know if she's okay now. And I want to know if she'll be rescued – found – sometime in the future. And how soon. I'm worried about this friend."

Julietta stared at him, not realizing it. This man was a Muggle in a foreign country, living among wizards, in _prison_, but his first question wasn't for himself. She also felt a bit nervous: she'd never done a reading for a Muggle before. But she folded her hands again and said, "I'd like you to draw five cards. Put them facedown like this…" she indicated a cross shape with her finger.

The man drew the cards and lay them out as instructed, while Julietta in her head catalogued them as they went along ('_Past, present situation, balancing factors, the future…_')

He happened to take two cards out for Future place, but Julietta said to let it be, let it be. The spread was laid out. "Now," she said, turning the cards over, starting from the bottom as she saw them. "The Two of Cups."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll explain, don't worry." She saw the man was curious not only for his question's sake, but for the cards themselves. She approved of that. The first card in the second tier, "The Knight of Cups." The center card, "The Page of Swords." Next, "The Eight of Swords." That explained a lot. " And the Six of Cups." She frowned.

"Are those good?"

"I'll explain." She gave him a little smile, and looked at her cards more closely. In the middle of her concentration, the man said, very timidly, "May I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do all pictures move, for wizards?"

"Ah. Well, yes, is the short answer. But my cards are special. The pictures change – just slightly – according to the Querent. That's you. So even if someone else drew these same cards for a different question, they would not look the same, and their meanings would be different."

"Oh… mind if I… um, take a closer look?"

"When I'm finished, if you don't mind."

She studied the images in the cards, a sort of story working itself out. "First of all, both you and this – friend of yours are mired in difficult and painful situations." That was obvious. "For yourself, you are…" the Knight of Cups probably indicated the querent. Sometimes the knight was merely standing by a river's shore. This time, though, he was in the middle of the river itself, the water up to his thighs. Still he held his cup out in the direction of the Page of Swords. "You are, by nature, an emotional sort of man – noble, with high ideals. But right now you're mired in a stagnant, very difficult situation. Losing control. Almost as bad, your ability to communicate and connect with others is severely compromised."

The man nodded.

"Now, your friend is someone who is…" the dark-haired Page of Swords. By the looks of the card, she was in the middle of a windstorm. Her sword was held aloft in one hand, and a bell in the other. "Aloof, and guarded, reserved with her emotions. Very smart and curious, but you have to guess what she's thinking at all times."

"Yeah – that's her, that's a really good description."

"Those are qualities that may help her out where she is now. Don't worry. She's aware of things – and as soon as she sees a way out, she'll take it. Because her situation… " she looked at the Eight of Swords, and got a sense that she had to interpret the card a little more literally than usual: it depicted a woman tied and blindfolded, standing on a watery plain with eight swords stuck close into the ground around her. "She's trapped. She has no idea how to escape. Any method she uses to change her situation will hurt her, one way or the other, but she can't stand there like that forever, either."

"What about a way out?" he asked.

"I'm not quite finished with her situation yet." She tapped the Six of Cups thoughtfully. On it, a little boy and a little girl stood in a garden, surrounded with cups. Usually, the six cups were filled with flowers, to indicate happy memories. But five cups were empty, except for the one that the little girl was holding. She was holding it close to her. Scanning the rest of the picture, Julietta saw that all the flowers in the garden were white. That cleared up one thing. "A Memory Charm."

"What?"

"There's been a Memory Charm placed on her. Or maybe a series of them. I've… never seen this combination before." She looked to the Eight of Swords again. "And she's trapped by these charms…" She looked up at him. "Does that sound even vaguely… likely…" She didn't need to finish the question, because when she glanced at his face, she saw an intense mixture of anger and frustration.

"Ah. Yes. I guess there are some Memory Cards at work… please calm down, sir."

"Me? I'm perfectly calm."

"I see… Now for the last cards… "The Star and the Moon."

On the Star, a blonde woman poured out water into a fountain under gentle starlight. She appeared to be singing. The other card showed a glorious moon shining over a seascape, where a crab scuttled onto the sand. Neither card moved very much, either. Cards tended to be still and generic when they reflected the uncertain future.

"Weird."

"What's weird?"

"Seeing these cards in this order. It's their natural order in the trumps. It suggests finding your way, then… losing it again."

"Oh. Great."

"I mean, that's only one interpretation."

"Of course."

"Yes. It's not going to be easy… I think that she's going to have a lot of uncertainty to deal with. The Moon card typically reflects a mental state more than anything else… for me, at least… and I think that she's going to be feeling the repercussions of this trauma for a while. But remember how I said earlier, if she sees a way out, she'll recognize it and take it?"

"Yeah?"

"That's the Star. The way will make itself clear, or someone will find and help her. And I think, if she has the chance, she'll overcome the mental shock through what the Star represents – healing, love, reconciliation."

"Really? That's what you think?" His hazel eyes widened, and he looked at the Star as if that alone could solve everything.

"That's what the cards tell me," Julietta responded simply.

"Does the Star mean things will be okay?"

"Not immediately. But it means hope."

"'It is the star to ev'ry wandering bark…'" he said softly. "Are you _sure_?"

"Sir! I have been reading cards since I was very little, I do kind of know what I'm –"

From behind the man, a voice echoed from across the cafeteria: "Julietta? How's it going?" Januarius Fell's voice.

"Oh!" Mark turned at the sound, then back to Julietta. "Well, I think that I've heard all I need to hear."

"Pardon?"

"The Page of Swords… Eight swords… Cups, cups, Six and Knight … and the Stars and the Moon. Great. I'll remember that." He was already getting up, and seemed to be in a hurry.

"Oh – sir…"

"Thank you very much. I feel a lot better now." He smiled and bowed to her (like a Knight should). "Take care, alright?" And he was gone, escorted by the guard to the Muggle wing again.

"Who was that?" Asked Januarius. He had arrived at her table and was glaring after Mark's retreating back. "Was that the Presumptuous Muggle?" Januarius put his hand on her shoulder protectively. "Was he bothering you?"

"No, Jan," Julietta said patiently. "I did a Tarot reading for him. There was no trouble. Except…"

"What?"

"He…" she furrowed her brows. "He knew about the Happy Squirrel card."

"What? I thought Muggles knew nothing about the Happy Squirrel!"

"But he did! It didn't even come up in the reading!"

Januarius glared out the door where Mark had departed. "There is more to that Muggle than meets the eye."

Julietta had taken out her deck's Happy Squirrel card and was regarding it warily. "Actually, Jan, there is. There really is."

ooo

* * *

><p><strong>Post-Script<strong>: Interesting thing reading this story, for me, is that I can see the influences on my own thinking as I worked through it. I was performing in a skit of 'Peter Pan' in the earlier planning stages, which is why 'Peter Pan' features so prominently. Just for one example.

Aaaaand, as it so happens, I also read Tarot cards as a hobby. Don't worry, knowledge of Tarot will never be necessary to understand this story.

Funny fact: Some of you may know 'The Happy Squirrel' card from its appearance in that one Simpsons episode where Lisa gets her fortune told. It's from 1995, so Mark would easily know about it. 'The Happy Squirrel' is introduced, and it has actually been included in some Tarot decks. Yes, for divination. Read more at .

No, I don't read with the Happy Squirrel, but I think it's hilarious. And it makes sense that wizards would have a Tarot card exclusively for them – until Matt Groening blew the secret, of course.


	4. Calliope in Captivity

**Chapter Four - Calliope in Captivity**

Calliope couldn't tell, but it felt to her like it should have been a dark and stormy night.

She imagined a storm attacking the world outside, the world that she knew – wind pulling at the trees and grass of Hollywyck, rain steadily drumming on the pavement of London, thunder echoing in Uncle's empty shop.

She sighed.

"You're not listening to me, are you?" Turpin said, irritated.

"No," she answered flatly. She was standing before him. He was seated in the desk chair, the single illuminated lamp drawn close to him.

"Do you even care about what I'm saying?"

She just closed her eyes. She heard Turpin sniff.

"Obviously my finer dissertations are lost on you… I thought I'd find someone more interested in the process, but obviously I've met a dud Ravenclaw. Fine. You're not here to be my assistant, after all. You serve me one purpose, and one only. You are a bank of secondary source memories of Benedicte Ollivander. And since primary source memories failed to provoke the result I wanted, I need secondary source memories. And that means, I need you."

"And remember," he added, "When this is over, for your cooperation, I'll intervene and liberate your brother, your cousin, and your Muggle friend. That was our deal. You remember, right?"

"I remember."

"Good. Now I'm going to make sure – " he drew his wand out of his pocket, a bright edge against the darkness, "that this is as easy as possible…"

He stood up. "_Petrificus Totalus_."

Just before she fell, he clutched the front of her turtleneck.

"There, now you don't have to bother yourself at all with reactions. Just…" he dropped her into the chair, "wait this out. Benedicte Ollivander. _Leglimens_."

Deft as an acrobat, he shifted through the ring of memory evoked by that phrase until he found –

_Young Calliope, who had entered the quiet room with the bright red curtain above the bed for the first time. The door in the hallway was locked. This room was – not allowed. But – for an hour, two hours, three, Callie looked at every photograph, picked up and felt every figurine, in reverent silence._

_This was Benedicte, gathered by her own hands, cherished in her life, all that she had left behind._

Calliope was aware that Turpentine's left hand was on her head, pressed with all the poise of a surgeon. His wand was at her temple. He pulled it away.

If she could have screamed, she would have – she felt a needlelike pain as the memory was displaced, extracted – no, no, she loved that memory, don't take it away – Her balance spun as she realized that the Death Eater was finished.

The memory was gone.

Into one bottle it went, a white coil of fog, and Turpentine corked the bottle carefully, and then checked her pulse.

"Normal," he muttered. "You're in good shape."

He stared at her for another minute, and said, as if he were a doctor, "The first time is by far the worst. Your brain gets a little accustomed to the spell over time."

Then he undid the Full Body Bind, and left Calliope limp on the couch.

ooo

The next night, the same assault.

"Benedicte Ollivander. _Leglimens_."

"_Calliope. Come here. I think it's time that I told you about your sister."_

_Calliope sat before her mother on the couch in Hollywyck. It was the day before Hallowe'en, and Calliope was still very young. But she could remember, clearly, every word of the conversation that followed._

Don't take it away…

She couldn't help it being taken away…

She grasped at the last words that her mother said to her on that couch, on that day:

"_You know, dearie, of all the choices I've made – that your father and I made – one right one was naming you Calliope Blithe. You have been nothing if not a joy to me." Callie folded herself into her mother's arms… _Don't take this away…

The pain; the dizziness. The memory was now dangling from Turpentine's wand ('_Now where did I learn to think of him as Turpentine?_'), now falling into a bottle.

When she was alone again, Calliope tried to sleep, but her mind kept swimming in circles. She tried to remember her mother's voice, but it kept getting dislodged by a sense of vertigo, of a missing step in a staircase, or swimming in a wave, where she kept losing the ground –

The next night. Turpentine's light was familiar. His was the only light that was there in the darkened room. He didn't even say "_Leglimens_" with any pleasure, more like he was a scientist studying some animal.

Calliope closed her eyes, tried to close her mind against what she knew was coming—

_It was dark and rainy outside, but inside the Tonks house in Oxford the lights were all on. Two little girls were spread on the carpet, heads together over a book, with more strewn around helter-skelter. Dora was wearing her hair long and blonde today, "like a princess." Calliope kept pushing her short hair and fringe out of her eyes, and felt very important in her blue tulip skirt. She loved the blue tulip skirt._

_Papa and Mr. Tonks were both there today, leaning by the radio. Mama and Mrs. Tonks had gone out together this morning. All the grownups were so solemn today. _

_On the radio, the sound of applause broke out. Dora looked up and clapped in sympathy. "What're you listening to, Dad?" she asked, getting up and hurrying to the radio. "A play or something?"_

"_Shh, Dora, be quiet." Mr. Tonks patted Dora absentmindedly on the head as Calliope got up and walked over, smoothing out her blue tulip skirt. She stood between Dora and Papa, watching the unchanging radio. It said,_

"And the trial is over, ladies and gentlemen. The trial of Bellatrix, Rastaban, and Rodolphus Lestrange, as well as Bartemius Crouch, Jr., is over. Now the judges are standing up as the Dementors take away the condemned… this is a bright day for the wizarding population of England and make no mistake… Mr. Crouch's wife appears to be in a faint. The other judges are trying to speak to him, but he merely supports his wife and begins to head down the stairs. The door guard has given clearance… now your faithful correspondent is on the floor, in the entrance hall, trying to get a word with Mr. Crouch…"

"How can he do that?" Calliope's Papa asks. "They'll be in Azkaban forever, how come he can't wait one meager day—" he quieted himself, now with one hand on Calliope's shoulder.

_ "All the major news correspondents are here, on the floor, but Mr. Crouch is speaking to no one – wait, who's this? A woman comes up to him, in a carmine-red cloak – what is she saying? – …" other voices were caught on the microphone, including Calliope's mother's voice._

_ "'… you must allow some mercy.'_

_ "'Mercy? You would –'"_

_ "Papa! It's Mama! Mama's on the radio!"_

_ "Hush, Calliope!"_

"'Don't put words in my mouth, Bartemius!'" Philomel's voice was scratchy but clear over the radio. "'You are allowing your personal feelings to block the path of true justice–'

"'_The four killers, murderers, criminals are on their way to perfect justice.'_

"'_What about _my_ child? What about justice for _her_? Bartemius, even if you will show no mercy to your son, give me a body to bury, please, Bartemius, for the love of God!'"_

_Calliope had never heard that strained, choking note in her mother's voice before. Papa's hand had left her shoulder. From the radio came Bartemius Crouch, Uncle Bartemius's voice,_

"'_Are you quite finished?'" _

_There was a pause, where the sounds of the crowd started up again and the reporter's voice came floating back, "Now he turns away from her, now he's almost dragging his wife through the crowd – still he will not speak to anyone – Philomel Ollivander puts her hand on her heart and stands there – your correspondent follows Mr. Crouch out to—"_

_Mr. Tonks turned the radio off. Behind her back, Calliope felt her father stand up out of his chair. He began to stride up and down the length of the room, his hands clenched so hard they were shaking. He repeated a French word under his breath, three times, four times, and then screamed it, once. Calliope didn't know the word but knew she wouldn't be allowed to say it, ever. Nor would she want to._

_Papa kept walking back and forth, speaking very fast in French. Finally, some English came through: "How could he? How could he do it? How could be that way?"_

_Calliope was still standing by the radio, completely oblivious to what Dora and Mr. Tonks were doing. She stepped towards the anxious, pacing man and said, "Papa?"_

_He turned to her, and for a minute she was frightened, but then he knelt down to her eye level and hugged her. She had seen his face for just a minute, and it had filled her with so much sadness –_

The Death Eater pulled the last memory out of the head, into the bottle. "Well done. Indeed. This is going to be swell…"

Calliope simply lay facedown on the couch. She thought she heard him mutter, "I think you're ready for the second experiment… Yes. Theoretically."

ooo

Turpin Rowle was sure he had the theory down perfectly – and what a theory it was!

He hadn't put into practice yet, but just the idea was – it was the sort of idea that made you itch to try it out in a parade of malice. However, Turpin reminded himself, there was not a _trace_ of malice in his plan. Aside from the usual sort that came with being a Death Eater, no malice at all. _That_ was business. This was personal. Revenge on Calliope Ollivander for having inconvenienced him mightily by lying about her memories… and for being a blood traitor and child of blood traitors, of course.

But of course, he was an optimistic fellow, and was sure he could find a way to make having an innocent captive on his hands work for his favor after all. Thorfinn,, politician that he was, was already planning out the best way to beg for ransom and make it a hostage situation, and so on.

But for right now, Turpin had found a way to combine revenge with a new experiment.

He stood before the door to the cellar, the book in one hand. He was rereading the pertinent passage for the thirtieth time. Blodwen, passing him, asked, "She was fed an hour ago, if that's what you're wondering."

"I wasn't, but thanks anyway." Turpin pushed open the cellar door and descended. He walked past the stacks of wine bottles and opened the door to Blodwen's old office.

Calliope was sitting on the couch, as usual. She did not turn her head when he entered, so he commanded. "Look at me." Sullenly, she did so.

He ignored how hollow and pale her face had become. He held the book aloft in one hand and his wand with the other. He cleared his throat and pointed his wand at the girl. She frowned, but didn't flinch.

"_Spectatrum Terriblus… Autonatototum_ – drat. _Spectatrem Terriblos Autonatum_ – what _is_ that last word? Hold on a minute, the light here isn't good…"

"You say that like I'm in some kind of hurry," she replied, deadpan.

He glared at her, and then back to his book.

Meanwhile Calliope was breathing deeply, preparing herself for whatever would come next.

"_Spectatrem Terriblus Atonatum Psychemis_!" he said at last, confidently.

For a second nothing visible happened. Then Calliope gave a jolt as though she was choking. She coughed, and what looked like a small wisp of white smoke came from her mouth. It expanded and began to take on a shape. A voice came from the smoke, and it sounded like Calliope's own.

"_You mean nothing to anyone_."

Turpentine moved to get a better view of the spell's effect. The smoke solidified into the form of a young woman from the waist up. She looked to be Calliope's age, with a heart-shaped face and short, spiky, bright pink hair. Her face was beautiful and unknown to Turpentine, and it twisted with hate as she looked at Calliope.

"_Oh, God_, _you_," it said. "_I was hoping I'd seen the last of you_."

"Dora?" Calliope gasped. At once she shook her head, muttering, "No, not real, I don't have to look at…"

"_Look at me when I'm talking to you_!" the apparition snapped, and the prisoner looked up. "_I'm astounded that you've managed to live this long, weakling that you are. Of course that means you're still my problem, in case I don't have enough on my hands with the entire population of Hogwarts!" _Dora's voice grew sharp and cold_. "I'm sorry I fetched you from Boston. I'm sorry I thought you could make a credible member of the Order of the Phoenix. I'm sorry for all the years I wasted on being your friend, you parasite! You haven't got the_…"

"The Order of the…?" Turpentine repeated, trying not to miss a word the apparition was saying.

Calliope still shook her head. "No… _no!_"

The apparition changed as she did so, morphing into the shape and voice of Linus Ollivander, looking older than reality, and very wise. The apparition's voice was still sharp as he continued, " _– stamina or knowledge – you can't even cast a Patronus! Everyone has to protect you, you can't even lug your own weight, you _– "

The figure changed again, it became an older lady with dark, grey-streaked hair and silver eyes and a noticeable resemblance to Calliope herself. Turpentine recognized Philomel Ollivander.

"—_useless, gawky, apathetic, cold, unwanted_ – "

"No!" Calliope cried. The phantom of Philomel Ollivander babbled a few more phrases, but they were meaningless. The voice and face faded to a wisp of smoke, which dissolved, too.

Calliope slumped onto the floor, her eyes unfocused. Then she seemed to come to and glared at Turpentine furiously. She was shaking. But she spoke with certainty: "Dora would never talk to me like that. Nor Linus. And _especially_ not my mother."

Turpentine shrugged. "Still, a very good first try," he said, keeping his face blank.

He left the office, closed the door, and locked it. He hurried upstairs, where he collapsed into a chair and poured himself a good brandy, reflecting that this was starting to become a rather regular occurrence.

Thorfinn looked up from behind his _Chimera Economics_. "How did it go?"

"Not – bad. For a first try, it went well."

"But?"

"Yes. _But_." Turpin sighed. "The spell is supposed to produce one consistent – or rather, _escalating_ illusion of _one_ person. It gets worse and worse, but it remains the same person. But my attempt turned into three different people sequentially and then petered out. _She_ got the willpower to stop it. Somehow. You see, the spell depends partly on the will of the caster, and partly on that of the subject, for its effect."

"Ah. Where did you learn this spell anyway?"

"A book from Malfoy Manor."

"Did you ask before borrowing it?"

"No."

"Hm. Well, it still sounds like a good first try."

Turpin thought for a while. "I need to weaken her."

"Imprisonment will already do a lot to her."

"Yes, but – that's it!"

"I'm always happy to provide inspiration." Thorfinn went back to his newspaper.

"Blodwen, come in here, please. Thorfinn, listen."

Blodwen entered. "What is it?"

"I've decided. I've been too kind." Turpin sat up in his chair. "This new experiment will work best if – "

"Not another experiment, Turpin!" she cried. "For Morgana's sake, you've got me staying up half the night worrying about your first one! Why can't you just finish _that_?"

"Because monotony is unhealthy," Turpin insisted. "But this experiment requires no action of yours. An inaction, in fact. We will not feed our prisoner anything for the next 24 hours."

"Nothing? Why, Turpin, that's cruel!"

He gave her a look. "Need I remind you, Blodwen, of what Thorfinn and I do in our spare time?"

"He has a point," Thorfinn added.

"But a little water, at least, we owe her."

"All right. Water."

"And a crust of bread. It's traditional."

"But that's it. Tell Corky the same." The old house-elf would only take orders from Blodwen, his inherited owner.

She glowered, but answered "I will. And you _will_ finish your first experiment at the first opportunity."

"I will visit her later tonight. Give her some time to rest, and then draw some more memories from her. Tomorrow night, or the night after that, I promise."

"And then what will we do with her?" Blodwen pushed.

"You leave all that to me," Thorfinn folded the newspaper. "I've been fiddling out all the fine details. We'll be able to wrangle a very interesting arrangement out of this, I think."

"And I've got a few more things to tell you, too, in private."

"I can see I'm not wanted any more," Blodwen said, taking her leave.

When her footsteps had faded on the stairwell, Turpin leaned in to his brother and said softly, "Thorfinn, I think our captive is a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

Thorfinn sat up at once. "What? Really? Are you _sure_?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Her first fear was someone named Dora – it seems like she's an Auror guarding Hogwarts."

"Nymphadora Tonks?"

Turpin blinked. "Who?"

"She's an Auror. She's currently guarding Hogwarts."

"Er. If you say so. She said she recruited our captive for the Order."

"You're _sure_ that's what was said?"

"Positive."

"Well. _Well_. That does up the ante, doesn't it?"

"And yesterday, wasn't Nott saying something about Philomel Ollivander?"

"Yes, about fighting her."

"But she was banned from fighting. I heard something about it."

"He said that she was also a member of the Order of the Phoenix," Thorfinn reflected.

"Like mother, like daughter." Turpin gave a smile. "Now how does that change your calculations?"

"Rather." Thorfinn smiled. "Let's work this out, shall we?"

ooo

Meanwhile, Blodwen had taken the stairwell down to the cellar. She walked to the door of her old office and stood outside of it for a while. Her arms were folded. She stared at the doorknob.

She could hear the captive inside crying.

"What if it was Tristan?" she asked herself. "What if it was Tristan in there?"

She stood and listened. It seemed to her like the sobs were being stifled, smothered, as if to prevent anyone from overhearing. And the captive was doing a good job; Blodwen would never have heard if she had been a little further from the door.

"What if it was Tristan?" she repeated, softly.

She reached for the doorknob, then remembered, '_If Tristan had fallen in love with a Muggle…_'

'_There's only Turpin's word to say she's really a blood traitor._'

'_Her mother was one before her_.'

'_She's crying and she's scared and she's only a child.'_

Blodwen made her hand into a fist and drew it back. She took a deep breath, and sighed it out.

On the other side of the door, Calliope heard the sigh. She immediately stopped crying and worked savagely to wipe away all evidence of her tears. She forced herself to sit up and draw her long black hair out of her eyes. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

And waited.

Blodwen had heard the sudden cessation of crying. She did not know exactly what to make of it. She left the door behind – trying to make for the stairwell, but somehow missing it. She ended up pacing up and down the rows of wine stacks. Finally she returned to the door. Somehow it seemed to her that it would be easier to face the captive if there were no tears involved.

She put her hand on the doorknob, already picturing their encounter – she would meet the captive's eyes, coolly, and the captive would open her mouth –

And ask, "Who are you?"

ooo

Calliope heard footsteps retreating away from the door. She couldn't tell whose they were. She lay herself down on the couch. According to the clock on the wall, it was not yet ten. Turpentine would not be down for a while. She closed her eyes and gathered strength, telling herself one last time, '_Dora would never say that to me. Linus would never say that to me.'_

Then again, '_That doesn't mean they don't think it_.'

Then she assured herself, '_My mother would never have thought that. That was a lie. It was all a lie_.'

She curled up on the couch. "All a lie."

Her stomach began to growl. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, hush, I do not have time to be hungry now. I'll get food in the morning. … Probably."

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, the Spectre of Soul spell (that's what it's called, what Turpentine just did there) is supposed to be the same spell as was cast on the locket!Horcrux in Deathly Hallows. That was honestly one of my favorite parts of the book. It's too good a spell for just Voldemort to use... or at least, that's what Turpentine's thinking on it would be.

Also, this chapter is shorter. GASP! That's why I've updated more promptly - no fair stretching out a wait for a shorter return, right? Besides, I've got a pretty complex few weeks ahead of me. Best to be prepared.


	5. The Witness

Chapter Five – Witness

"Hey, Umbridge has picked the expert witness for the Prosecution," Hector said, holding yesterday's _Prophet_ aloft.

"Excellent, another patsy," Linus commented, deadpan.

"Oh no," Hector said.

"What?" Mark looked up from the funny papers, which he had been studying with dedication.

"The witness is Atreus Fell."

Linus groaned. "Please tell me his name is a marvelous coincidence, and that he's not related at all to that Muggle-phobic minister that Mark met?"

"It's Januarius' father. And Umbridge's cousin."

"Well, damn," Linus, still horizontal, folded his arms across his chest. "I don't suppose that being her cousin means he's really an incompetent lout who's bought his way through the promotional…"

"Someone's coming," Mark said, putting the papers away.

It was another guard. He unlocked the door to their cell. "You have a visitor today. She wants to see all three of you at once."

"Who is it?" Mark asked.

"An Auror. She says she's come to be your defense counsel."

As the prisoners left the cell, magic at once bound their hands together with strong, invisible cords. On the way out the door, Mark asked the guard, "Sorry, but what's an Auror? Man, that's a hard word with a Boston accent…"

"An Auror is a very important job," the guard explained with some pomposity, "A trained witch, in this case, who catches Dark Wizards for a living. So I expect you to treat her with appropriate respect."

"Yes, sir!" Mark said.

The guard thought he heard a trace of sarcasm in that statement, but he had never been told to expect sarcasm in a Muggle, so he concluded that he must have imagined it.

The door to the conference room opened. "The prisoners, ma'am."

"Bring them in, and you can leave us alone. Take off their restraints."

"Yes, ma'am."

The petite woman turned around to face the three men. "Linus… Hector." She nodded, greeting them. "And you must be Mark Printzen."

Mark confused, looked at the two wizards – who seemed to recognize her – then back at the Auror. She walked up to him and held out her hand. "I'm Nymphadora Tonks – and I'm an old, old friend of Calliope's."

"Oh!"

"You may have heard of me – Dora?"

"Dora?" Mark repeated. "You're the friend that took Calliope away from Boston in the first place! Of course I remember hearing about you." Before Dora could articulate a response, Mark added, "For what it's worth, I did really want to meet you."

She smiled, a little. They shook hands. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Printzen. But I insist we keep things professional for now. I'm here as your defense counsel, and that's top priority."

"Dora," Linus started. "Do you know who this Atreus Fell is?"

"A friend of mine did a little research on him, _Mister_ Ollivander," Dora sat at the table and indicated them all to do the same. "He's the father of Januarius Fell, a young but respected reverend –"

"I've met him," Mark said darkly.

"Yeah," Hector added. "He's a friend of Tess."

"His father, Atreus Fell, is also a cousin of Dolores Umbridge. The fact that Atreus is on the prosecution is a sign that Umbridge wants this over with, and fast. He's a legal scholar, and specializes in historic law – ancient rulings such as Presumption and Despair. He's also a cunning public speaker and loathes Muggles."

"Why am I not surprised?" Mark asked. "Question. They're still bringing me up on a charge of Presumption? But that's double jeopardy, isn't it? Isn't that… not allowed?"

"In this case, they may open the charge again, just to add to it if they think you've done more Presumptuous things."

"Oh, great."

"And of course, the other things that you've been 'accused' of aren't helping. But there is a bright spot. Apparently, right before her kidnap, Calliope wrote a letter testifying to your innocence."

"She did?" Linus glanced at Mark.

"Yes! I was there! But it didn't get sent."

"I think that Scurry sent it by owl post. The Wizengamot received it and they're going to admit it into evidence. So how are you pleading?" The question was abrupt.

Linus and Mark looked at each other. Mark nodded. Linus turned to Dora and said, "We're pleading not guilty."

"On all counts?"

"On all counts."

"Wait a minute," Hector said. All eyes turned to him. "What about breaking and entering? We can't exactly plead 'not guilty' to that. We were caught red-handed."

"We're going to ameliorate that," Mark explained, "with _why_ we did it…"

"Yeah, but we still _did_ it."

"Weren't you paying attention the first time we talked about this? See, this is why you're not a lawyer." Linus crossed his arms.

At the same time, Mark said "I just have a feeling that if we all plead guilty that old pink vampire will say '_Excellent_'" (this with a sinister grin and a steepling of the fingers) "and send us off to Azkaban lickety-split."

"Plus," Hector pressed on, "What about that whole blackmail thing?"

"Blackmail?" Dora sat up at once.

"For everyone except me…" Hector moped.

"Do you _want_ to be blackmailed?" Mark turned to him, frustrated.

"Oh, Mark, I would love to see you try to blackmail a wizard," Linus said, rubbing his right temple with unusual vigor.

Dora raised her eyebrows. "Are you pleading not guilty by reason of collective insanity? Because that might work."

"Oh, look, sarcasm." Mark quipped. "You can't scare _me_, I work with _children_."

"I'm not trying to scare you. If I succeed, that's a nice side effect. Tell me about this blackmail. Who? And for what?"

"Tuprin Rowle," Linus said at once, "the Omniamnist – my old boss – the one whose house we broke into."

"We only did it because he kidnapped Calliope," Mark put in.

"So you mean he's a Death Eater? What more can you tell me?" Dora was taking notes in shorthand.

"He's attempting an experiment with memory erasure." Linus supplied. "I told you about it. He's trying to eliminate a member of my family, my sister Benedicte. It's been at least a partial success: I don't remember her anymore."

Dora looked at him. "And Calliope is useful to this project now?"

"Exactly." Mark concurred. "Calliope still remembers Benedicte. That's why he kidnapped her."

"Huh." Dora consulted her notes. "Turpin Rowle? He has a brother, a very high up politician. His name is Thorin, or something like that."

"Thorin Oakenshield?" Mark asked innocently. Linus glared. "What?"

"Seriously, gentlemen," Dora went on, "His brother is on the Board of International Commerce. A very well-respected figure. I heard that someone was trying to get the trial out of the public eye, or even send you off without a trial. I would guess it was his attempt. But I wouldn't worry about it. This trial has gotten a lot of publicity—"

"Yeah, right, just what we need." Linus muttered.

"It's a good thing," Dora said with waning patience, "because it means more people are interested in you, now, and want to see a trial."

"Preferably with pyrotechnics," Mark added.

"Dora, I suggest as an old friend that you don't take anything that this man says seriously…"

"No, wait, Linus, I kind of like this idea. Would it have anything to do with smoke bombs?"

ooo

That night, a tapping sounded on the wall in the Sycorax.

"Mark? Are you there?"

"Huh? Oh. Sorry. I'm here."

"It's okay. I'm ready."

"No, Guadalupe – I don't think I'm able to tell the story tonight."

"But you've got to! I've been looking forward to it all day!"

"I don't have the energy."

"I heard something – isn't your trial tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, we should finish this off, right? Who knows if you'll be here tomorrow or not?" After a pause, "Oh, god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Another silence. "Mark? Please. I want the story. I won't interrupt. You can even stop the substituting. I know that the horrible monster that swallowed the Silmaril is a wolf. I know. And I appreciate you trying to make it a flying shark— I mean, that's really cool, but I can tell it's a wolf. And I'd rather have the truth – even more than a flying shark with laser beams. I get it. I thank you, but you can just say wolf." A pause. "So… whenever you're ready." Another pause. "I'm listening."

"Maybe I don't want to tell the story."

"What? Why won't you?"

"Things get bad."

"You mean they get _worse_? How is that – Beren's hand got _eaten by a flying_ _shark!_ And besides, man, you're talking to a _werewolf_. I've seen and done some bad, bad shit, so don't think you need to sugarcoat…"

"They _die_, okay?"

"What? _What_? Who dies?"

"Beren and Luthien. They both die."

There was a shocked silence, then a choking voice whimpered, "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You wouldn't do that to them."

"I didn't write this story."

"You wouldn't! You wouldn't do that to Luthien!"

"What's Luthien to you, or you to Luthien?" Mark paraphrased bitterly.

"She reminds me of someone, all right?" Guadalupe tried to sound tough. "She's like Noemie."

"Who's that?" Mark asked in spite of himself.

"She was a werewolf in the pack. The best friend I had there. She was tall and skinny, one of those Arab girls with long curly black hair, and her eyes always kind of shock you because they can be all soft when the rest of her is all claw and bite. She was a _damn_ good woman."

"What… happened to her?"

"She… she…" Guadalupe tried to speak, but couldn't finish even two words before she started sobbing.

Mark pressed the wall with one hand. "No, no, don't cry. Please, Guadalupe. I'm sorry. I'm – I'm so sorry I upset you."

"You're a horrible person! I hate you! And whoever wrote this story down was worse!"

"Guadalupe – to be honest, I stopped because I'm scared."

"Scared?" Guadalupe sniffed. "What do _you_ have to be scared of? You're not a werewolf for the rest of your life…"

"No, but, you said that Naomi – is that her name?"

"Noemie."

"Noemie was like Luthien to you? Well… I have a Luthien of my own. And I'm scared to death that I'm never going to see her again. Everything that's happened to her is my fault. I'm just – very scared. And I didn't want to make the Luthien in the story die."

"Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't know. But… how _can_ she die? She's an elf. They're immortal, right?"

"I'll tell you the rest of the story, right now. It has a happy ending, trust me."

"How can it have a happy ending if they all die in the end?"

"Just trust me."

"Okay… Beren died getting the Silmaril, didn't he?"

"… Yes."

"And Luthien?"

Mark found the next words unexpectedly hard to form. "She… well. When Beren was brought back to her, he was still alive, but barely. He put the Silmaril into her hand and looked at her, and she kissed him, and said only, 'Wait for me.' And he died, and the quest of retrieving the Silmaril was complete. And then she laid down next to him, and died, too."

Another sob.

"But the legend doesn't stop there. Her soul continued… she journeyed alone. No one knows, not even the elves, where the spirits of Men take when they die. But she wandered until she came to the hall of Mandos – the halls of the dead. And there…" And he continued to talk all through the night, about Beren and Luthien's return to life, of their happy lives together, and peaceful death. And when their stories were done, he told Guadalupe about their grandchild, Eärendil, who took their Silmaril into the heavens with him, to sail across the skies as a beacon of hope to all mankind.

When it was done, he said, "See? Happy ending. I told you so."

Guadalupe gave a sniffle. "That was beautiful."

"Thank you. Now I'm going to sleep."

"Mark?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for telling me that. And good luck, tomorrow. I mean it. And… I hope you find your Luthien soon."

"Thanks." He heaved a sigh. "I hope so too." He clambered onto his bunk and closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, it was the morning of his trial.

ooo

Mark was washing his hands in the jail's restroom, when he saw someone approach him in the mirror. He turned around, bracing himself – the other, wizard inmates sometimes found a lot of fun in tormenting "the Muggle."

But the approacher held up his hands. Mark recognized one of the young Muggle werewolves from the cell block. It was the heavyset, burly one who looked like he could snap Mark in two. But instead he said, not looking Mark in the face, "I don't mean no trouble, suh."

"Ah – what do you want, then? Mark asked, inching his way towards the towels.

"I just want to say, suh, them stories you was tellin', bout that elf-girl, and that warrior wot loved her – those were damn fine stories, and all of us think so. 'Lupe does specially."

Mark figured he meant Guadalupe. "I didn't know you were all… listening"

"But of course. Really, we – we liked them a lot. They were real cool. Thank you."

"You're – you're welcome." Mark was surprised. And touched.

"And good luck with your trial today, suh."

"Thank you. And good luck to you, too."

In what? Mark wasn't sure. But as he left the restroom and joined Linus, Hector, and Dora, he felt a sense of warmth – '_I did something right for a change_ ' – steal through him, lifting him up.

Later, right before he, Linus, and Hector left to go to the Sycorax, Mark stopped by the cell next to theirs. He knocked on the door. "Guadalupe?" he called.

He saw a shadow move on the floor. Then a shape got up from the floor. From all fours, to a crouch-walk, she approached the door timidly.

"It's me, Mark. I wanted to see you and say good-bye."

"Oh!" She came into full view, and Mark saw her clearly for the first time. She had very large brown eyes that widened as she saw him, and badly cut brown hair that stuck out in a fluffy halo all around her face. She was underfed.

"You're Mark?" she asked, and her voice was the same voice as had spoken through the walls the past couple of weeks.

"Yes, that's me. It's good to see you at last, Guadalupe." He smiled, but she stared at him with the same wide-eyed expression. "What's wrong?"

"It's just…" she faltered. She who had been so fierce and blunt when a wall stood between them, faltered. "You look so much older… than… me. I thought that you were younger. Like, around my age. But… how old are you?"

"Twenty-four," he answered.

"I'm sixteen," she volunteered.

"Look, don't worry about age for now," he said quickly. "I don't have much time, but I wanted to see you, and say hello, and wish you the best of luck."

"You, too, Mark. Good luck."

A guard came to lead him away; he smiled and nodded at Guadalupe again. Her eyes followed him down the corridor, until he and his companions were out of sight. 

"High in the upper rows of the courtroom, your humble correspondent, Lyman Heckinger, Daily Prophet Reporter extraordinaire, is watching the crowd trickle in. From politicians with their finger on the cultural pulse, to spectators eager for a good show, gradually the seats fill up.

"Then the judges march in – a neat line in their stiff black robes. Then, the accused enter, escorted by guards, to take their place in the chained chairs, which now number three – one for Mr. Hector Gibbs, once the expert witness, one for Mr. Linus Ollivander, disgraced Obliviator, and one for Mark Printzen, American Muggle found guilty for Presumption.

"Though Mr. Ollivander and Mr. Gibbs walk with grim resignation to the chair of chains, Printzen shuffles his feet, casting his eyes around as though looking for a way out.

"Turpin Rowle, the plaintiff, in his stateliest Omniamnist's robes, enters and takes a seat on the first level. He stares at the accused with a cold curiosity. Then, with the _clack_ of Pius Thicknesse's gavel, the session comes to order."

Lyman Heckinger looked proudly at what he'd written. He then carefully crossed out "Daily Prophet Reporter extraordinaire," with a little sigh.

He took one more look around the courtroom, and then settled down with his book of crossword puzzles and set to work – for as of yet the courtroom was completely empty.

Gradually, his prophecy proved true: the courtroom filled up.

Lyman put away his crossword puzzles and prepared himself. He was eventually forced to make a few amendments: Of the three defendants, Mr. Ollivander was the one who shuffled his feet, blinking sleepily and with a perpetual frown. Mr. Printzen looked only straight ahead – like he was afraid, but mastering his fear. Furthermore, Heckinger was forced to record the existence of an advocate for the accused: a petite young woman in full Auror uniform, with a face full of steely determination. She conjured up a bentwood chair for herself and sat in it by the accused, waiting.

Meanwhile, the chain of chairs had locked each of the wizards' left legs, but the Muggle was bound on both his legs. Heckinger took note of this (in case it became important later).

The defense, it turned out, had a witness after all – a petite blonde Obliviator who moved slowly, like she was not quite over a serious illness. She talked for a while to Linus Ollivander, who seemed surprised to see her – wait. Lyman leaned over to see better. She wasn't talking, she was writing things down on a notepad and holding them out to be read.

That was rich – a witness for the defense who couldn't even talk!

But the most surprising alteration the journalist had to make was that, even when the court really _was_ called to session, Turpin Rowle, the prosecutor, was not there. Heckinger took note of that, and of everything else that he saw happen.

ooo

On the courtroom floor, Mark was very pale. "Tonks?" he said.

"What is it?" she turned to him.

"We can't. We can't do this to Calliope."

"What do you mean?" Hector asked.

"We can't plead 'Not Guilty.'"

"We can't plead 'Guilty' either," Dora said tightly.

"But if we do, at least she has a chance of getting free…"

"Mark." Dora put a hand on his shoulder. Suddenly he realized that she was trying to take care of all of them there, and Calliope who was absent, and she said softly, "I've got someone looking out for Calliope. You have to have faith in me, as I have faith in them. And Death Eaters do not keep their word. They use deceit, lies, and treachery all the time. Her – _our_ chances of saving her are nonexistent unless we plead not guilty."

The tap of a gavel sounded far above them. "Court will come to order."

"Besides," Dora added, "You must not lie under oath. You're innocent." She squeezed his shoulder, and before she turned away, said, "You must not forgot that."

ooo

Nymphadora Tonks – with all the marks of worry and stress on her face – did not look her best that day. But she had spent the morning making herself look – not pretty – but like an Auror. Her hair was short, dark, tightly curled, and pinned away from her face. Her high-heeled boots made her look taller than usual. Her usual black choker with its sun cross on it gave her an air of austere spirituality, rather than punk.

When the court was called to order, she stepped forward and said, "I want to make one thing clear to everyone present. And I'm not speaking as a woman whose best friend as been kidnapped, and not as the longtime friend of two of these men, but as an Auror. These men are innocent. They have been turned into scapegoats by a paranoid Ministry and a paranoid press. And in a tight spot, they have done what they thought was right, or tried to, only to be branded as criminals. But I know their innocence, and the sooner all of you realize what you have done to these men – a bereft wandmaker, a respected Obliviator, and an innocent Muggle, the better it will be, and the sooner we can get to pursuing those who are actively and actually trying to do us harm. We are furthering the agenda of the Dark Lord's followers by perpetuating this injustice."

Umbridge sniffed, and the trial began.

Atreus Fell came forward as the Expert Witness of Ancient Law, with specialties in Presumption and Muggle-on-Wizard crimes. For a long time arguments wavered back and forth on Presumption, on the charges of being an accomplice to Presumption, of a Muggle breaking into a Wizard's house – whether or not it was justified, if Turpin Rowle had actually kidnapped Calliope, and all the _ifs_ to accompany that.

Though Turpin Rowle himself could not make it, his brother, Thorfinn, was there and spoke on his behalf (saying his brother was laid up in St. Mungo's with a _very_ bad bout of bronchitis.) Of course his brother was not responsible for Miss Ollivander's disappearance. The Confounding Charm he had placed on his house had either addled their wits profoundly – "And that wouldn't surprise me, in the Muggle's case," he added with a sneer – or they were deliberately lying. Or, perhaps, Turpin Rowle had been framed by a mischievous Death Eater.

However, the defense had a compelling witness as well. Amity Tweak, in her Obliviator's robes, sat in an overstuffed chair not far from Dora. When asked to testify, she wrote on her notepad and handed it to Dora, who read her words aloud. According to Amity Tweak, Turpin Rowle had deliberately poisoned her the day of Calliope's capture, to get her to stop her independent investigation.

At length, Dora sat in the bentwood chair and sighed heavily. "Your honor, I feel that we're chasing each other in logical circles. Until we – what? Is someone at the door?"

There was; Umbridge said to ignore it.

"The fact of it is," Atreus Fell said, "The Muggle has already been _found_ guilty of Presumption, and there is no reason to continue this train of thought."

"He is _not _guilty," Dora countered. The knocking on the door grew louder.

"Julietta," Umbridge said in a harsh undertone, "Go and see who is at the door."

Julietta Fell meekly complied.

"I say, we are all asking the wrong questions. We all know that Calliope has vanished. I wonder, by whose hand exactly? The last time she vanished in mysterious circumstances, it was thanks to that Muggle…"

"Again, we're chasing that ridiculous Presumption logic!"

"If you will let me interview the Muggle himself, instead of trying to protect him," Fell held up a thick, yellowed book. Mark recognized it: '_Man and His Symbols_,' by Carl Jung. "I have here some well-established Muggle theories of 'magic' to test him on. Should be fun, yes?" He smiled sportingly at the crowd. "Maybe _he_ can give an answer as to why Miss Ollivander has vanished."

"That won't be necessary," came an easy, bass voice with an American accent from the back of the courtroom. Everyone turned to see.

A black man with short dreadlocks, in long robes of the American fashion, strode up to the center of the floor. "Andrew Paul Dupont, witness for the defense – Hi, Mark." He grinned at Mark, who was, for once in his life, speechless.

"Who let you in?" Umbridge demanded.

"That charming little lady who just walked out."

"What is your relationship with the accused?"

"I'm a Muggleborn wizard who's grown up with Mark Printzen."

"You're a friend of his?"

"Believe me, I know him better than he knows himself."

At this, Mark stiffened and his face fell. He still watched Andrew, but the smile that had been slowly growing on his face died quite suddenly. He just stared.

Hector also stared at Andrew like he'd seen nothing like him before. And Linus just blinked at the newcomer with a little frown, and Amity (who was just waiting to see how this would unfold) could swear she heard him say, "Oh god there's two of them."

With a ready smile, Andrew answered all of Mr. Fell's questions. Yes, he was a Muggle-born wizard. No, Mark – not "the Muggle," if you please – had never had the slightest idea that he had friends who were wizards. No, he had no idea magic was real, as far as Andrew knew. No, Mark was not the sort to ever hurt anyone, least of all Calliope, to get magic.

When Mr. Fell paused to look up a legal quibble, Andrew addressed the court at large.

"I would like to say, I did not come here direct from the Keyport. And I haven't been sitting on my hands at home, either. The American government is willing to take Mark off of your hands and put him on trial in the American court system, if you can't come to a conclusion here. In fact," he nodded, "We'd really prefer that. In the meantime, the American Embassy is willing to take him into its custody right away, so he'll be on American soil. Even Mr. Ollivander and Mr. Gibbs can join him there."

"_Hem, hem_." Umbridge gave a little cough. "Sir, haven't you forgotten something?"

Andrew thought a minute, counting on his fingers. "I should have tipped the cabbie?" he offered. The court laughed.

"Mr. Dupont, I don't know if you understand, but this court has put a lot of money and time into seeing the Muggle Printzen get the justice he deserves. For you to come in and suggest that the American court, which has no idea of the subtleties of our laws, can snatch this trial from us and do a better job is a _wee_ bit insulting, don't you think?"

"In another case, maybe," Andrew said after a pause, "But, and I'm sure that Miss Tonks, all the Defendants, and Calliope herself would agree, that if we are trying to give Mr. Printzen the justice he deserves, you have all been doing a pretty crummy job of it."

Umbridge gave a horrified gasp, and the crowd's reaction was very mixed. Lyman Heckinger, grinning manically, scribbled furiously on his notepad.

Umbridge, still gasping, was staring to say, "How _dare_ you…" but her breathing was irregular. Mr. Fell gripped her shoulder, saying "Cousin – your medicine –"

In the brief confusion, Dora went up to Andrew quietly and said, "Thank you."

The noise had just begun to die down when the door flew open again. Julietta Fell ran in. "Listen!" she cried, holding the _Daily Prophet_ to her chest. At first no one heard, until Dora shouted "LISTEN!"

Silence fell. All eyes turned to her. She had evidently run much of the way to the courtroom, and as she tried to catch her breath, she shrunk under all the gazes.

Her father stood up from next to Umbridge. "What _is_ it, Julietta?" Her brother half-started to rise from his chair.

Dora asked softly, "Please, what's happened?"

Julietta lifted up the _Daily Prophet_, hands shaking. Not looking up from it once, she read in a loud if squeaky voice, "This morning, Calliope Ollivander, reported missing for this past week, was admitted to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She was found wandering in the neighborhood of Blackfriars. As of press time, she appears to be in mild shock, and unconscious, but stable."

Julietta looked up from the paper – not at Umbridge. Her eyes met Mark's.

"She's been found," he whispered.


	6. Expecto Patronum

Chapter Six – Expecto Patronum

A/N: There's another Canon Guest Star this week - a surprise. This chapter is quite a bit longer than the last, and contains some very dark imagery, just letting you know ahead of tjme. Enjoy!

ooooooo

At first, Calliope thought that the house-elf was merely late. Buying groceries, or facing an unexpected eruption of dust bunnies. He would bring her food sooner or later. So she convinced herself, and tried to put off her own appetite by reading more of '_Elemental Magic'_. There was a miniature chapter between Water and Earth, on the manipulation of blood. Gruesome, and enough to destroy anyone's appetite. For ever.

But then, she realized it was getting to be mid-afternoon, and still there was no food.

All her thoughts were interrupted periodically and more and more frequently by the growls and aches of her empty stomach. She heard the sounds of water running above – the sound she'd always guessed to be the house-elf doing the dishes. He wasn't going to feed her.

Any food she may have hoarded had been eaten before now, but that didn't stop her from searching every corner of the office that she could open. At the bottom of the desk was a box that could only be opened by a password. Calliope tried "Tristan," the name written inside of the childrens' books. It worked. The box sprung open to reveal a few documents, folders, and a small, dusty bottle of wine in a small rack marked, "For Samples." It was half the normal size of a wine bottle, but still...

Calliope picked up the bottle and remembered the theory of Weatherwax magic. She held the cork of the bottle in her left hand and said "_Alohomora_."

Nothing. Not even a twinge of magic.

She tried again, eyes closed, and concentrating as deeply as she could. "_Alohomora_."

Was that even the right spell? It had to be. She couldn't think of a better one. The bottle sat mute and unopened in her hands. One last time, she tried. "If you're a witch at all, you should be able to wield magic in any object." Uncle had said that, once. So this was no different from using a wand. And after all, its insides were magical, right? Enchanted wine, no doubt. And sort of alive. And who needed an incantation?

"_Alohomora_."

Still, nothing.

Calliope grit her teeth. "_Open, damn you!_"

The cork loosely came off in her hands. "Oh. Well."

She sat back on the couch and took a long drink. '_Maybe I should water it down. I don't want to get drunk. My, but that's tasty_.' She sat back and savored the taste, her mouth puckering. As she readied for another draught, she vaguely studied the wrapping. Shrugged. "Too bad I know nothing about wine." Another drink.

Aah, this was better. It was nourishment. It was flavor. It was… it was strong. Calliope was starting to wonder if one could get drunk off of one bottle, on an empty stomach. She reckoned she'd soon find out. Well and good. Well and good.

She drank slowly, to make it last, commenting out loud on the fruity, blueberry, sour, flowery, licorice-y, chocolatey, citrusy, etc. flavors, bites, hops, and Merlin-knows-what-else that she could detect.

When she fell silent, there was nothing but the sounds of birds, traffic, and a pair of high-heeled shoes walking by to emphasize the silence.

Calliope looked around, took another sip, and declared, "_Il est trop calme!_" (Her father had said once that French was the only language in which to be drunk.) Then she began to sing. In French, naturally, lying on her back and holding the wine bottle, with its sloshing contents, to her breast.

"_Ce soir j'attends Madeleine, __J'ai apporté du lilas, J'en apporte toutes les semaines… Madeleine elle aime bien ça_!"

When she'd finished one verse (not knowing any more), she took another drink. Again, she was painfully aware of the silence. But music was a comfort. It had always been a comfort to her. So she began to sing again, enjoying the sound of her own voice as she had enjoyed the wine.

"_Quand on n'a que l'amour,_" she sang, translating to herself, "If all you have is love…"

In the middle of verse two, when she paused to remember a word, she heard another voice singing in reply, "_Pour qu'éclatent de joie_, _chaque heure et chaque jour_…"

The voice was female, a clear soprano as opposed to Calliope's wavering mezzo-alto, and sounded like it came from the sidewalk. And her French was flawless. Calliope stood on the couch, trying to see out the little window. She was glad she was so tall; she got a decent glimpse out the window. There, over the hedges, and between the grapevines, there was – a blue hat. A cloche.

"_Quand on n'a que l'amour_," she sang again. When the other voice joined her, she had no doubt: the blue hat belonged to her musical partner.

'_If I can get her to realize I'm a prisoner_,' Calliope thought, '_But how_? _More singing? What French songs do I know about being in prison_?'

She laid her forehead against the lower pane, thinking, '_There was that one ABBA song – no. Nonsense. I've got to think. Why don't I just shout?_'

Meanwhile, the soprano fell silent. She had noticed that Calliope was no longer singing. Calliope found herself praying that she wouldn't walk away. But instead, the owner of the blue hat put up a hand – a white hand with a silver wristwatch, waving as if in a friendly salute.

Calliope waved back and said, "_Bonjour!_", even though she was out of sight and sound.

But just then, two _pops_ sounded on the walk up to the house, and the hat scurried out of sight. Calliope sank down onto the couch, despondent. Then she wondered – most wizarding houses planted soundproofing spells into their shrubbery to mask the sounds of Apparition and other day-to-day noises. How, then, had her voice carried over to the sidewalk? She was a strong singer, but not _that_ strong…

She took a drink from the now almost empty wine bottle in her hands, then she stopped, and, much to her own surprise, started to laugh. The bottle, filled with almost-living, enchanted liquid, was her almost-wand. She had used it to channel magic without even realizing. She laughed harder. "And all I had to do was get drunk! Truly," she blew onto the top of the bottle to produce a deep note, "Hadn't Dumbledore always said, 'Music is a magic far beyond what we study here?'"

ooo

Thorfinn and Turpin pushed open the door to the entrance hall and put down their briefcases. Corky the house-elf had appeared at their feet, asking, "May I take your shoes, sirs?" when Thorfinn interrupted, "What is that?"

They listened. A voice from the basement was singing. In French. With gusto.

The brothers looked at each other in apprehension. Then, "This is _your_ business," Thorfinn pointed his brother to the cellar door.

Turpin couldn't argue with his big brother. He went down the stairs and opened the office door warily. Then he stood in the doorway, rather stunned at the sight that greeted him.

The French song (which sounded far more indecent than he'd ever thought an Ollivander was capable of) came from his captive, who dropped off the high note when she saw she had a visitor. Her long legs were draped over the top of the couch, and she lowered them again now, sitting up and hiccupping.

"Oh, I've seen a woman's legs before," Turpin snapped, irritated. Then he saw the bottle in Calliope's hands, and understood.

"Why," he whispered, as she looked from the bottle to him and back, "you're drunk off your arse."

"_Pas completement_," she whispered. She shoved the bottle towards him, and slurred, "_Esp – Expelliarmus_!"

He merely waved his wand and the bottle flew out of her hands and shattered viciously on the wall nearby, making her cringe.

Turpin jerked his wand again, and the door slammed shut. He stepped forward, smiling, and brandished his wand at her. "_Spectatum Autopsyches Terriblus!_" (He'd been practicing the words all day).

The captive's reaction was instantaneous. She doubled over, coughing terribly, as a white smoke poured from her mouth. Again a voice came from the smoke (and Turpentine kept his wand trained on the subject, willing the spell to stay alive):

"_Calliope Ollivander, I have seen your heart and it is mine. You mean nothing to anyone. You've never been wanted, never been welcomed, you are incapable of inspiring or feeling actual love._"

The prisoner kept coughing until there was enough white smoke – enough for it to resolve and reshape itself into a young man. It was not just the head and chest, like the old attempt. This man was fully formed and life sized. He was dazzlingly handsome, so much so that it took Turpin a moment to recognize the clownish Muggle, Mark Printzen.

The phantom stared at Calliope, who was huddled up on the couch, and he smiled coldly. "_Oh, Calliope_," he said. "_I'm glad to see you like this. Isn't this just what you deserve? After all, your ineptitude has let me rot in the Sycorax, twice, with you unable to do a thing about it. Now look at yourself. Dead drunk, starving, imprisoned - you're so low that a Muggle is mocking you. Now _that_ is pathetic_."

The phantom cast its cold hazel eyes on Calliope, then glanced around the small office. "_How much longer will you last in here? I ask you. How much longer before you go irrevocably mad?_"

"You're not Mark," Calliope shook her head, grit her teeth. "You're not Mark."

"_Yeah, keep telling yourself that_," the phantom-Mark gave a leering smile. "_What, do you think the real me will be coming to save you? A knight in shining armor? I'm not a knight in shining armor, and you know it. And you're far from a fair damsel, you cripplingly useless thing. None of us are coming to rescue you. Not Dora. Not Linus. Not your mother. And certainly not me. _Look at me_ when I'm talking to you!_"

He swooped like a bird of prey so that he was dominating her, making her cower on the couch. "_What, I'm not good enough for you to look at? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed that you've come to feel so strongly about a filthy, slavering Muggle?" _He took her long, black braid in his hand, and he tugged it – clawed at it. "_Do you know why they always said to stay away from Muggles? Stay far, far away_," the braid came undone, and now her hair tumbled down her shoulder and neck, and he whispered through his bared teeth, "_because otherwise we'll stain you, soil you, wreck you, until you're no better than one of _us."

"Stop it –"

"_I'll show you _exactly_ what that means_ –"

"Stop!"

"_And you'll never look down on me again_—"

"Stop! _Mark!_"

"_Finite Incantetum_," Turpin Rowle stabbed his wand at the phantom-Muggle, and it vanished, leaving only a stunned Calliope lying on her back and breathing quickly, looking like she was about to cry.

Turpin put his wand away – his hand was shaking, and he was exhausted from the effort. He tried to choose what to do next, then –

"Get out."

"What?"

Calliope had lurched upright. Her loose hair framed her face chaotically. "I said get out."

Turpin frowned. "I see no reason –"

"Get _out!_" Calliope had forced herself to stand up and slammed her left hand on the wooden desk. "_NOW!_"

There was a rush of air, and the sound of the door slamming and locking itself.

Turpin was on the wrong side of that door. He blinked. "Well," he said to himself. Then, being a practical fellow, he ran up the cellar stairs, trying to quash the unease in his stomach with each step.

"So?" His brother asked. He was pulling on his black cloak and fixing himself a quick mimosa in the kitchen. "How did it go?"

"Fix me one of those, will you?" Turpin sat at the kitchen table. "Well. It went well. My second experiment is a success."

"The Spectre of the Soul experiment?"

"Yes." With trembling hands ('_Trembling with excitement,_' Turpin assured himself) Turpin began to pull on the plain, oversized black cloak of Death Eaters.

"Do you think that the subject needs to be starved for it to work?" Thorfinn asked dryly.

"No – nor drunk, neither. I just needed confidence in casting. Her being starved was – "

"A placebo?" Thorfinn took out the glass for the second mimosa.

"No, not a placebo, because it legitimately affected the results."

"You sound dazed."

"No. I'm fine. I'm fine." Turpin watched the glass as his brother filled it with first white sparkling wine, then with bright orange juice. His mouth felt dry when he thought of what he had almost done to that young woman, the niece of Mr. Ollivander. He spoke without hearing his own words: "A placebo is a trick. It's fake – completely fake – but it makes the victim think it's real."

"I think you mean 'patient,'" Thorfinn raised an eyebrow.

"It doesn't even have to seem vaguely plausible for it to have an effect… _wait_." Turpin started up. "Hold the mimosa."

Leaving his brother confused in the kitchen, Turpin ran up to the spare room, which had become his quarters. He then took out his wand and three small bottles, of the sort used to store memories. Taking a deep breath, he set his want to his temple. Then he whispered, "_Echo-echo, mene-mene_."

He drew his wand from his head. A strand of silver cloud stretched between the two, then it broke into three identical pieces, which swirled into the three bottles standing on the desk before them. He held one up for inspection. Each of these memories would be an identical recollection of the scene he had just witnessed – and he could edit them, tailor them as he needed, later. You never knew when something as volatile as this would come in handy.

He felt distinctly better, but not quite at ease. He returned downstairs, to the kitchen, and took a drink of his mimosa.

"Put on your cloak," Thorfinn checked his watch anxiously. "The call will come any minute now."

"I know. I know." Turpin put the cloak on and slid his mask onto his head. "Thorfinn?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever get sick? Feel nauseous? At the sort of things we do?"

Thorfinn paused only long enough to straighten out his black gloves. "Yes. Sometimes."

"How do you – manage?"

"I do something else. I read a paper. I doodle a cartoon – or I make a mimosa." Thorfinn allowed himself a small smile as he took a sip from his own glass. "I make a to-do list. And when I try to sleep, I assure myself I'll feel better about it in the morning."

"Is that all?"

Thorfinn swirled his three-quarters empty glass in his hand. "If I get really sick, I think of Blodwen. I think of Tristan away at Hogwarts. And I think of the world I'm trying to make for them. But I know. Sometimes the unease comes, and it doesn't leave. Don't drink that stuff all in one gulp, now. Savor it."

"What happened to 'Any minute now'?"

"I made a damn good mimosa and I want it appreciated."

"Of course."

"Turpin – you know what you need to do? Tonight? You're not feeling uncertain or –"

"No. Thank you for your concern," Turpin clapped one black-gloved hand on Thorfinn's, "But I know what to do. The second experiment was a success, and now – things are clearer. I know what to do. You know what _you_ should do?"

"What's that?"

"After the meeting, when we're both back home, take Blodwen out for the evening. Nice little dinner. Take her out to a show. There are some good reviews in the paper, and you can always get tickets last-minute in Leicester Square."

Thorfinn eyed his brother suspiciously. "Are you planning anything else with your experiment tonight?"

"No! Not at all. I think my subject deserves some rest before I do anything else. I just think we all need a relaxing evening, and you should pamper your wife a bit, after all the stress I've put her through."

"By Jove, Turpin, you have a sensitive side. I'm shocked. An old bachelor like you."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up." The two men were still chuckling when they both winced and reached automatically for their left forearms. They slid their masks over their faces, hurried out the back door, and Disapparated.

Downstairs, behind the locked office door, behind the closed door to the water closet, in front of the mirror, Calliope was reacting.

She'd bent over the small toilet, vomiting again and again until her stomach was empty, and she'd kept retching, until she could sit back, shivering. The alcohol was gone; the nausea was gone; but that left a gap, a place for shock, for horror, and that feeling of... _filth_.

It had entered her ears, her eyes, touched her, undone her hair. As soon as she could stand up, she'd leaned on the sink, taken off her shirt and was tried to clean herself as best as she could with the small sink.

"Impossible. Wrong. Wrong. Just wrong. _Never_." She kept her jaw clenched tightly, fearing what she might do – sob, shriek, shiver – if she wavered for an instant. "Taking that shape – making him horrible… As if – as if – as if I would ever be in love with Mark. I'm not in love with him. I'm not!"

She looked at herself in the mirror, trembling, her black hair making her look even paler than she already was. She sobbed once, folding her arms and laying her head on the cold sink. She tried to suppress her sobs, thinking furiously "I cry too much." She tried washing her face with cold water, then looked at herself again. She wasn't much improved, but she could say to her reflection, "I'm being cruel to him. Mark isn't like that. Oh _god_…" she leaned against the door to the main office, hugging herself tightly.

She had a moment of silence, just listening to herself breathe, and knew she was alone in the house, for now.

She straightened up, put her shirt back on, and prepared to open the door. She looked at herself in the mirror. "Whatever it takes," she said clearly. "I have to get out of here."

Calliope opened the door to the office, fiercely pulling her damp hair into a ponytail.

ooo

The two Death Eater brothers opened the door into the parlor of Malfoy Manor, having just straightened out their masks to perfection.

ooo

She took a book with moving pictures and held it out over the pile of glass shards that had once been a wine bottle, saying, over and over again, "_Reparo. Reparo_. _Reparo_."

ooo

The Death Eaters listened in silence to Lord Voldemort as he reprimanded some, threatened others, and praised a select few.

ooo

After a long time, Calliope had almost half-reassembled the bottle, but had decided to give up on the bottle as a wand substitute.

ooo

Then Rodolphus Lestrange stood up and summarized what had been accomplished in the past week, what setbacks the Death Eaters had faced, and what remained to be done.

ooo

She held the book out and tried to focus on a happy memory.

ooo

Turpentine got the strange and absurd impression that he was sitting in a board meeting, after all.

ooo

She tried to remember Mark, but only the leering, too-handsome face came into her memory. She tried to think of her mother, or of her home, but her memories were jumbled up and incoherent. Her mother's face would be trying to tell her about Benedicte, and then she would be flashing back to another moment, only five years later, and she couldn't hold on to anything.

ooo

Turpin waited. He bided his time. He did a few breathing exercises, and pictured the wreaths of applause that would soon encircle him him. At last, the time was right.

"My lord," he bowed his head, "I would like to tell you and the assembly of the progress I have made on my experiment."

"Certainly, Turpentine," the Dark Lord tilted his head slightly to look at his servant. His red eyes did not blink as "Turpentine" stepped out onto the floor.

"My lord –"

"Is this the experiment for which you captured the Ollivander girl?"

"It is related, sir."

"You are not yet finished with the first? You really must attend to that. People will think you lack commitment."

"Believe me, sir, I am very committed to this…"

"More committed than you are to the work we do," Bellatrix Lestrange hissed, lounging beside the Dark Lord, "otherwise you'd not be wasting time with your little lab rats."

Turpin curled his mouth in a smile, glad that his mask hid his face. "This newest experiment, I believe, is _quite_ useful to everyday work in terror. And I have mastered it."

"Oh?" Bellatrix's voice was mocking. "And what experiment is that?"

"I have mastered the Spectre of the Soul."

There was a gasp among the listeners – not great, but gratifying. Voldemort's mouth – you could hardly say that he had lips – curled up in a smile. '_He is pleased_!' Turpin thought. "For those who do not know," Turpin explained, "The Spectre of the Soul is a very difficult charm that draws on the strength of the victim's soul. It then assumes the shape of – someone very dear to the victim, someone loved, trusted, such like that – and proceeds to use the victim's soul against them. Unlike the Boggart, which merely projects a childish fear, the Spectre of Soul takes all the hideous facts that people know about themselves – know, but will never say – and drags them into the open, to play on such dreads and midnight terrors the way that a maestro plays a violin."

"A most verbose summary," the Dark Lord conceded. "And now, if you would, a demonstration?"

Turpin had already been preparing to produce one of the jars of memory from his pocket. His lord's question made him stumble. "A – a demonstration?"

"Yes. A live demonstration on someone here?"

"Ah. But of course! Is there a prisoner for this demonstration?" Turpin looked around, and at once an image flashed before his eyes and almost made him nauseous – Mr. Ollivander, old, weak, brought before him and tortured – he steeled himself, he must be ready for _anyone_ –

"I think a prisoner would be rather too easy for you, Turpin. Bella questions your loyalty to me…"

"I believe, sir, she was questioning –"

"_Do not interrupt_. Let us silence her. Perform the charm on your brother."

"What?" the question was just a breath between Turpin's mouth and his mask. He doubted whether the Dark Lord had heard him at all.

He looked back at the mask of Thorfinn, standing by the gap in the circle. What would Thorfinn's Spectre be? Would it be his wife? His son? Turpin himself? Maybe their mother or father? Turpin's hands clenched involuntarily into fists. What if that Spectre expressed all the doubt and anguish that came with being a Death Eater – just what the brothers had been discussing earlier? What would Voldemort do? He would fly into a rage, torture, torment…

Kill?

Turpin turned back to his hated and revered tyrant, and bowed. Behind his mask, he put on a sort of smile like he hadn't had to use since he'd become an Omniamnist – too wide, too smooth, sycophantic. "My _Lord_," he coaxed, "Speaking as a team and squadron leader myself, I can think of no better way to reduce morale than this! There is no use in a demonstration like what you describe, when I have here in my pocket –" With a theatrical flair, he whipped out the small bottle of memory from his breast pocket; "—a fresh, unadulterated memory of my success. I can display it for all the world to see, if, for example, Mrs. Malfoy," he bowed deeply in what he knew to be Narcissa's direction (she always stayed close by her sister), "would care to produce a Pensieve?"

A Pensieve was soon acquired. Turpin dropped the memory like fast-spreading ink into its heart and cast his wand over the shallow basin. Then, the memory rose out of the Pensieve's surface, cast in three dimensions and spinning slowly, for all the room to see.

Turpin stepped back – not quite back into the circle, but by his brother, and watched the torment again.

When the memory had finished, Turpin, gesturing grandly, said, "Now, I know some of you must have questions: Is this memory fabricated, or is it genuine in every detail? Why, of course it is genuine. I wouldn't lie about _this_."

Then, the Dark Lord's high-pitched voice cut in: "Turpentine, stand forth." He did so. "Now, if you please, unmask."

He did so. With a smile, he began to ask, "My Lord, what –"

"_Crucio_." The burst of torment was brief but vicious. Turpentine's whole body jerked with the shock. His mask fell off and skid across the floor. When he straightened up again, he heard the laughter of the Death Eaters around him. Then something prodded his arm. He turned, frowning terribly – and saw that his brother was holding out his mask. Wordlessly, he took it.

"_Silence_." The Dark Lord's commandment was obeyed. "That, Turpentine, is for disobedience. When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out, at once, without regard for whom it may affect. That is my law. Do you understand?"

"Yes… yes, milord."

"And as for giving yourself airs over having completed a tricksy charm… I will admit, it is not unimpressive. It is a useful spell. But, do you think you could double-cast the spell on the same person? Produce two simultaneous phantoms?"

Turpentine gaped, but said nothing.

"Or could you invest enough power into the spell, so that in years to come that same spell would affect all who touched a particular item?"

"Sir, that sounds – nearly impossible. It would cost me my own life, maybe."

The Dark Lord smiled. "I have done _both_ those things, and furthermore I did them when I was decades younger than you are now. So don't pride yourself on this spell cast on a drunken, solitary wench. Remember your betters. Now, you may stand down. Unmask, all of you." The cruel red eyes burned into Turpin's. And the Death Eater knew that the only reason his torment wasn't extended was that the Dark Lord thought it not worth their time.

ooo

As soon as Blodwen got home, she called for the house-elf. Corky appeared at her feet, bowing. "Yes, mistress?"

"Corky, do you know if Turpin has performed his second experiment yet on that young girl downstairs?"

"I would hazard to say that he has, Mistress. He took a mimosa with Master in the kitchen."

"Thank you. That will do." She automatically handed him her cloak and hat. "Now that that's done, you'll give her some food, of course."  
>"Yes, Mistress."<p>

"Make sure it's easy to digest. Soft bread, soup, milk."

"Cinnamon milk?" Corky hung up the cloak and hat gracefully.

Blodwen froze. Cinnamon milk was the special treat that she would make for Tristan when he was a little boy. She snapped, "No, Corky, don't be stupid," rather harsher than she felt.

"Yes, mistress. Shall Corky set his ears in the oven for being so stupid?"

"Oh, no. Just slam your fingers in the desk drawer. There's a good elf."

She tried to relax in the parlor, but couldn't stop thinking about the prisoner downstairs. She wondered what Turpin's second experiment had been, and worried for the child, much as she tried not to. She tried to read the paper.

After an hour of "relaxation," she heard the front door open. She met her husband and brother-in-law in the hallway. "Er – how did the meeting go?"

"It could have been better," her husband said quickly. Turpin said nothing; he just pushed past the two of them and headed upstairs, almost snarling. When he was gone Blodwen asked her husband in a quiet voice, "What happened to him?"

"The Dark Lord… didn't like his second experiment," Thorfinn said, equally quietly. "I think we should give him some time to himself tonight."

"Mm… yes, yes, that sounds like a good idea."

"I had something in mind, in fact," he smiled at her. "Why don't you go and put on something nice, and we'll go into town? Get dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, then go to Leicester Square and – catch a show."

Blodwen gave a little gasp. "But Thorfinn! We… really shouldn't." She looked at him, lowered her eyes, then looked up again in a way that had always made him melt.

"You know what show you want to see, don't you?"

"There's a production of '_The Little Mermaid_' that got a fabulous review in the _Prophet_."

Thorfinn smiled, tucking his sigh away. "Sounds perfect," he said. "Now, let me change out of this, and we'll go to Leicester Square right away."

Before long, they were out of the house.

ooo

The house-elf had brought food, which had revived the prisoner to an unbelievable extent. Then, with a great effort, Calliope had been able to bring light to one of the lamps. That satisfied her, the darkness softened by a single yellow glow. She lay back on the couch, her mind still addled by the drink and the phantom, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Slowly, the lamplight dimmed.

She didn't know how long she had been sleeping when she was jolted awake by a loud crash, as if someone was moving furniture. She sat up and looked to the ceiling, but another crash did not sound as if it came from upstairs. It sounded like it was right outside the door…

Another crash. Calliope put on her slippers, set her left hand on the lamp, and waited. And then realized she was hungry again. '_Drat_.'

The cellar door slammed open. Turpentine stood there, his wand out and pointing at Calliope. She stood up at once. "All right… what do you want?"

"Get out here."

"Give me a minute." There was one large shard of glass left from the bottle that had worked as a wand. It was the size of the palm of her hand. She took the glass carefully, hiding it behind her back, and slowly stood up. Standing tall, she walked out of the office for the first time in days. She was so excited by this prospect that she didn't trip or tremble when she walked. She looked around at once.

All the racks of wine – which reached to the ceiling and _would_ have filled the cellar in neat rows – had been magically shoved against the side of the wall. That accounted for the crash. (Even in her plight, Calliope could imagine the outrage of the owner of that wine to see their product so abused.)

"Don't take another step!" Turpentine snapped.

Calliope looked down. Her slippered right foot had been about to step onto a circle drawn in chalk. She looked up. The entire empty floor of the cellar – a large space – had been filled with the circle. Inside the circle, three vast triangles overlapped neatly to create a nine-pointed star.

"Hm. I didn't know you were into street art."

"Be quiet!" he snapped. "Do you know what I'm doing?"

"No." Calliope turned back to look at him. They were eye-to-eye.

His face was even more discolored red than usual. His eyes were bright, his mouth and brows contorted into a scowl. Every lineament showed anger, frustration, and vexed pride. "Good. _Good_. It's much too complicated for a foolish girl like you to understand," he walked along the rim of the circle, counterclockwise. In his hand he absentmindedly jangled a small wallet.

Calliope leaned against the back wall. The glass was warming in her hand, a warning. "I may not have the full understanding," she said slowly, "But does this have anything to do with you wiping the memory of Benedicte away from everyone?"

He looked at her. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it does. But we don't _wipe_ memories. You should know that."

"Why?"

Rather discomfited now, he tried to explain, "Well, that's basic Obliviator practice, to destroy a memory completely is too difficult, what we simply do is – I don't have to explain this to you! You know _nothing!_"

"I'm not asking _how_, I'm asking _why_."

He was just reaching into the bag, but stopped. "Come again?"

"Why wasn't it enough," Calliope spoke quickly, her words coming without thought, "that Benedicte Ollivander had to die young, alone, away from her family? Why did you have to wipe her memory from the people who loved her most? And yes, I know it's not really 'wiping.' Why?"

"Ah!" Turpentine took something out of the bag: a bottle filled with a silver memory. "A good question. I have an answer all prepared. I work for the Dark Lord, you understand."

"Voldemort," Calliope supplied. The word came surprisingly easy.

At the sound Turpentine flinched and looked at her, disgusted. "Who do you think you_ are?_"

"I think I'm a witch. Go on."

His hard-won composure rattled, he continued, "My Lord lets me perform experiments that no one in Magical Law Enforcement would dream of. That's what this all is. An experiment. Your sister is the only one, so far."

"I wondered."

"You probably have no idea of the real thrill, of the addiction of discovery."

"Muggles have a word for that. It's called science."

He glared at her, setting out another bottle. She noticed that the three bottles he'd set out so far were placed exactly on the points of the star. Then with a jolt, another realization came to her: those were _her memories_ on the star. She shuddered involuntarily: it was like seeing one's organs trotted out and put on display.

"Don't compare me to those… wretches. Listen, because I'm not going to repeat this. Imagine, if you will – I got the idea studying in America, hence my list of examples," He straightened the third bottle out to a miniscule degree, "– imagine a world where there had never been a Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He was a famous civil rights activist, a martyr in a way. His example inspired changes in even the Wizarding United States. Or, who's that girl, Anne Frank. Muggles always point her out when they want to make a case for someone who was genuinely good and forgiving."

Now he had placed down a book on the triangle – Calliope tried to see what book it was. He went on, "I don't know her story very well, but that's her legend, which is more important now than her life. But her legend, and Dr. King's legend, make the world a better place."

"Yes, I get it. Go on."

"Now imagine a world without them. Or, worlds where they had lived, died, and were never anything past that. They touched no one, taught no one, changed nothing."

Calliope considered this. "So you want to make that a reality. Well, you're a Death Eater… why Benny?"

"I want to see if I can. She… suits the criteria, let me put it that way, for the one person who will probably receive this treatment. Someone that you know of. And that's all I will say."

He pulled out a long blue dress and folded it carefully on the ground of the circle. Calliope recognized the dress, and tried to remember the story of when Benedicte had worn it – but her mind wouldn't focus. She tried to breathe slowly, to order her thoughts. To distract herself, she began to list off Benedicte's 'criteria.' It was hard to remember it all. There was so much faded and… she closed her eyes and tried to focus. Benedicte. Died young. Gryffindor. Received some media attention. No children, no romantic attachment (that Calliope knew of.) Died young. Black hair? Caucasian? Who on earth could –

And then it hit her. She opened her eyes in shock. "Harry Potter," she whispered.

"If you've worked it out, you don't have to hide it," he said, now taking a set of carved animals out of the bag, "because soon that won't matter for you in the least. And _Petrificus Totalus!_"

The spell took effect at once, and Calliope couldn't cry out in pain, for even her jaw had clamped shut. She couldn't move: she could only feel the blood trickling down from her cut left palm. She had gripped the shard and –

_'Why does this keep happening to my hand?_ _This is just a minor setback_,' she told herself. '_I must still escape_. _Oh, god, my hand…_'

She closed her eyes – the only thing left that she _could_ do. Opening them again, she realized that her right, uninjured hand was brushing a wooden chair, which had been tucked beside the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the countercurse to the Full Body Bind, to do it wordlessly. '_Come on, Callie_,' she thought. '_The chair is your wand. It's just another wand._'

She concentrated – and felt the hex dissolve partially, her power reverberating through the chair. Her hand and mouth were freed. She caught the chair in her grip and said the countercurse out loud this time – what was the first time she'd used this spell…

"_You'll pay for that, Ollivander, you overgrown freak! Petrificus Totalus!_"

She blinked, the magic draining from her arm and shoulder. For a minute she had been outside, on the Hogwarts lawn, a fourth-year again. At that instant, she'd been dueling, informally, that prissy Gryffindor Patricia Land, who was much shorter than the growth spurt-prone Calliope. She even felt like an awkward teenager again…

But that was years ago. Now she was in a cellar.

"Oh, I'm messed up," she muttered. She heard Turpentine coming down and fell back immediately onto the floor. The man paid her very little heed, however, as he came down the stairs. He had a box of chalk in one hand and a small leather pouch in the other.

"Okay," he said, "okay, okay, okay."

From against the wall, he levitated a large marble disc with a nine-pointed star carved on it, and set it onto the center of the floor. Then he checked and re-checked his coordinates…

Calliope, with one hand, took the arm of the chair again and focused, with all her strength, on the Body Bind Countercurse. She felt her legs and spinal column free up, but still they felt as if they were asleep.

This was the best she could do? Fine. Fine, it would do until Linus, Dora, and Mark arrived.

"_Dora, when did you and I start being friends?"_

"_I dunno. Let's ask Mum."_

Now the Death Eater was carefully delineating three overlapping triangles within the circle. When these were marked out, he took the items, including the bottled memories, and set each one at one of the points of the nine-pointed star.

"_Look, I know you feel awful, but I can make it up to you."_

"_Mr. Printzen, I really would rather just…"_

"_First of all, call me Mark, and second of all…"_

The puppets that told the story of the Rod of Asclepius he carefully piled up at one corner, beside the dress, which he draped out with an artistic touch. The last item he put in place was the painting of the Ollivander children. Calliope heard at first a few little cries, then Turpentine waved his wand and there was silence. He propped the painting up on the edge of the circle, against the chair.

When all nine corners of the enneagram were filled, Turpentine turned his back to Calliope.

"_Shrimp, did you know that those stars up there, that the light actually came from those stars a million years ago? Some of those stars don't even exist anymore!"_

"No forget-me-nots – nor dandelions – I think this will do, though…" He was writing down every detail on the notepad, apparently past noticing her. She allowed herself to shuffle forward until she was directly behind the painting, allowing it to hide her from his sight.

Turpentine was outside of the mandala now. He pointed his wand with sudden purpose at the dress. "Be."

He walked to be behind the menagerie, and without stopping his stride, pointed his wand and said, "Ne." One book. "Dicte."

Calliope gripped the oak frame of the painting. Oak went with linden. This frame had harbored a magical painting for decades –

'_What spell am I going to use?_' she thought. '_Oh god._ _I have to use something – something that will matter –'_

"Clem."

'_Oh god, he's getting closer – something that will make a difference…'_

"Ence."

'_I need help. I need to summon…_'

"Oll."

Now or never. She gripped the frame and

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

she screamed, filling her mind and heart with Dora, Linus, Mark.

The oak rattled and broke off in her hand, and a Patronus – corporeal! At last! – went out from it – it traveled around the circle, around the path Turpin Rowle had set. It swept up the dress, scattered the little puppets, and sent the books flying while Calliope and Turpentine watched, dumbfounded. Very briefly, the Patronus – still without a definite shape – seemed to be caught by the toppled over bottles, and then it made them _explode_ while Turpentine hid behind his sleeve and she ducked behind the frame – it had made the entire round, and when it returned to the painting where it had begun, it sprung into the center – and materialized.

Silvery white, entirely without color or shadow, a Patronus, and yet not a Patronus. A young woman, who looked rather like Linus – with a squarish face and short hair, wide eyes and a snub nose, moved towards Turpentine like a panther.

He took a step sideways – avoiding her, studying her. "What is that?" he demanded of Calliope. "What have you done? What _are_ you?" he asked the phantom. He walked faster around the circle, trying to study it from all angles. Its eyes only followed him.

"You!" he pointed to Calliope without looking. "What did you do?"

It was now standing directly between him and Calliope. He was too excited to notice, but it also stood on the marble slab on which was carved the original mandala.

The Patronus-not-a-Patronus lifted the disc and shoved it at him, sending him crashing into the wall behind him. With the same motion, it turned away from the unconscious man and towards Calliope. She recoiled, fearing an impact –

But none came. Instead, the Patronus beckoned to her.

Trembling, Calliope stood up. The Patronus walked – or gave a very good facsimile of it – across the cellar floor. Calliope followed. She turned back to look at the painting of the Ollivander children.

It was now still and silent: a teenage girl, a young boy, and a baby, posed and smiling, as though forever.

She shuddered and turned away.

The Patronus' light went with it, and gradually the unconscious figure of Turpentine faded into the shadows. The Patronus went up the cellar stairs, and always stayed just out of Calliope's arm's reach. Calliope slowly ascended the staircase, gripping the railing tightly. Then they were upstairs – in a well-lit, nice little hallway like Calliope might have found in any house in England.

Seemingly indifferent to the surroundings, the Patronus of Benedicte led Calliope - to the back, through a kitchen, and a back door. The lock was on the inside. Calliope opened it after some fumblings to feel a cool breeze on her face for the first time in days.

She felt awake and aware. Then she felt chilled – she had only a turtleneck, a long skirt, and house slippers against the cold stepping-stones of the little garden, but she pressed forward.

She drew the door behind her, but let go, and without her knowledge another breeze came along and left the door slightly open.

The Patronus was now the strongest light between trellises of withered vines, where dead and faded leaves hung slack. Finally, there was the gate to the street. The Patronus simply leapt over it. Calliope put her hand on the latch and tried to push it open. It didn't budge.

She rattled the gate furiously, but it didn't budge. "_Alohomora!_" she said, but she couldn't concentrate to make real the spell. She leaned all her weight against the gate, softly groaning, "No, no, no, no…"

The Patronus stood there quietly, watching her. She looked at it pleadingly. "_Help me!_" she said. "That's what you're supposed to do! Or – go, run, _get_ help, find someone!"

The Patronus said nothing.

Instead, it lifted its right hand, and – with a surprisingly warm touch – stroked Calliope's forehead with its thumb.

Then it vanished.

There was a long, long silence.

Then Calliope heard the pops. Two people had Apparated at the front of the house.

ooo

It was lovely to come home to a lit house. As Thorfinn and Blodwen followed one another up the steps, Thorfinn was still talking about the show. "And I mean that finale? With the hurricane and everything? Incredible. In-cred-i-ble. I mean—"

"Thorfinn?" Blodwen said at the doorstep.

"Yes?" He was putting their home key in the lock.

His wife kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. This evening was wonderful."

He smiled. "You're very welcome, Wren." Then he opened the door. "Turpin? We're home." Silence greeted them. "Turpin?" Thorfinn stepped forward. Then a cool draft hit his face. "Hey, did we leave a window –"

"The cellar!" Blodwen gasped, pointing.

"_Turpin!_" Thorfinn ran down the cellar stairs. Blodwen, however, felt the breeze. She hurried through the hallway, and stopped at the open back door. She heard a rattle, like someone was trying to force the back gate.

"_Lumos_." She proceeded down the path quietly. The rattling grew louder…

ooo

When the light entered her peripheral vision, Calliope turned around to see a vague, womanly shape holding a lit wand towards her. Calliope did nothing. There was nothing left to be done.

Blodwen got her first good look at Turpin's prisoner since she had entered the house. She was pale, tall, with disheveled black hair and alarmingly light eyes which simply _stared_ at Blodwen in an unnerving way. Her hands were still on the gate latch, bloodied.

For a long moment the two women just stared at each other. Then Blodwen raised her wand, and Calliope flinched.

"_Alohomora_."

The gate swung open noiselessly. Calliope looked from the gate, to Blodwen. Then she walked out of the Rowle house.

Blodwen closed the gate, went back inside, closed the kitchen door, and sent out an immediate owl to St. Mungo's to help her brother-in-law.

Now all Calliope had to do was get away.

She crossed the street. No cars were in sight or sound. Two trees, equal in size and nearly leafless, obscured her from sight. She considered this to be a good step one, and leaned against one of the trees, trying to plan.

She clutched at her forehead – where had this awful headache come from? It was like there were more voices in her head than she was accustomed to. They were telling her to head North, to Hollywyck. She groaned.

And her hand came away sticky. Right. She was bleeding. It began to hurt.

There was a _pop_, and Calliope opened her eyes, wary.

The tree opposite her was gone. Instead she was face-to-face with a breathtakingly beautiful young lady, with silvery blonde hair and blue eyes wide with concern.

"Are hyu all right, Miss Ollivander? Say zumthing!" Her French accent confused Calliope even further. Until that accent, Calliope had thought maybe she'd died and was being escorted by a proper British angel to heaven.

"Who are you?"

"Oh." The young woman in the blue hat smiled shyly, and sang, "_Quand on n'a que l'amour_…"

Calliope recognized the voice. "_Vous êtes la soprano!_"

"_Oui!_" She added, still in French, "And furthermore, I'm a friend of Dora's."

"Oh? Really? Splendid." She was fading out.

"Here. Lean on me. I'm going to take care of you."

"Really?"

"But of course. Can you Apparate?"

"I don't think I have the strength to…"

"Then here. Put your arm around my shoulder – there. Just hold on for a few more minutes."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Fleur Delacour."

"Beautiful. I'm Calliope Ollivander."

"Yes. I know."

There was a loud _crack_ like a gunshot, and the two witches vanished.

ooooooo

A/N: The Spectre of Soul is a shout-out to Deathly Hallows, obviously, but not a malicious shout-out. Actually the whole scene of Ron and the locket Horcrux was my favorite in the book (and captured perfectly on film, by the way.) But I gotta admit it does feel a bit fanfic-y – come on, a chance to trot out a character's worst fears and darkest secrets while participating full-on in the Shipping Wars? It's kind of a shortcut. But I still like it. And that's why it's here.

Also, weird but actually-not-true fact: The original draft had phantom-Mark dressed and speaking just like the Old Spice guy. Towel, dramatic monotone, and everything. "Look at your soul. Now back to me. Now back at your soul. Now _back to me_…"


	7. Reunions and Dissolution

Reunions and Dissolution

A/N: Special Guest Stars this week – Fleur Delacour and Andromeda Tonks!

... Wow, this chapter is surprisingly short. Why do I feel like I should apologize? Don't worry, I'll be more prompt with the next chapter.

* * *

><p>Calliope slept.<p>

She dreamed that Dora was next to her, wearing her Hogwarts uniform, with her hands dug deep into its pockets. They were all sitting together in Hogwarts. It was an autumn day. Dora was saying, "I just wish you had owled me with this news straight away, instead of letting me find out in the courtroom same as everybody else."

"But, things were so busy 'ere," said the voice of the French soprano. She was sitting in Hogwarts, too, in night when the rest of it was in daylight. "I didn't want to leave her for a second in the case that – well, and zumthing 'appened after we arrive 'ere. I am in ze lobby with Mademoiselle here, and waiting, and she is half-asleep, but suddenly three people enter – two tall men, one petite woman, maybe fifty or sixty years, all of them – and Mademoiselle, she goes into a panic."

"Did she say anything?"

"Only that she needed to be 'idden. So I tried to hide 'er. I took 'er to the vay-say."

"The bathroom?"

"_Oui_. But while we were hiding from the people –"

"Were they inspectors? Medical personnel?"

"Oh, _non_! They were 'ere for 'elp. The one man, he was injured. Unconscious. But while hiding, we missed our doctor, so then we had to wait even longer."

"I get it. But, you couldn't send me an owl the minute you got home?"

By now, Calliope was fairly sure this wasn't a dream.

"I am sorry, Tonks, but I was tired, I thought I had done enough."

Dora sighed. "You did well. But you have to go the extra step. You can't just inform Dumbledore and McGonagall."

"I'm just getting so used to thees…"

"We were _all_ getting used to this once!" Dora burst. "Wait. I didn't mean for that to sound as angry as it did. But I'm – I'm _sick_ of being out of the loop. I thought that if anything happened, Linus would owl me _first_. But he didn't. He acted stupid."

"Acted stupid-lee, I think, ees the correct Eenglish."

"I couldn't agree more. And now, again, when my _friend_ is the issue here, I'm left out. We were all new at this once, Fleur. But was have all got to learn _fast_."

"_Oui_. I comprehend." There was a silence. Calliope figured she might want to show that she was awake. "So," the French girl was saying, "'Ow long 'ave you known Mademoiselle?"

"We go back years and years. She's one of my best friends."

"I admire 'er, to have escaped that 'ouse on 'er own."

Calliope opened her eyes.

"Wotcher, she's awake!"

Calliope looked at them – they were in different clothes than she had dreamed. Dora was in her full Auror's uniform. Calliope murmured, "No, go on, don't mind me. Keep talking about how wonderful I am. It makes me feel loved."

Dora smiled at Calliope's deadpan tone, and took her hand. "Sure we'll go on. How're you doing?"

Unable to settle on a word, Calliope said, "Eh."

"Are you in pain, anywhere?"

"Headache. And I'm _starving_."

"What do you want to eet, Mademoiselle?" the French girl asked. "I will go to the petite café and get it."

"I'm sorry, but, have we been properly introduced?" Calliope touched her hair – it was loose and unbraided, but freshly washed – hoping to jog her memory. "I know your voice, but your name…"

"I am Fleur Delacour."

"Right. I knew that. Wait – the others! Mark! Linus! And Hector, poor Hector. Are they all right?"

"They're fine. They were in jail, but not any more," Dora explained. "They were trying –"

"To rescue me, yes, I remember learning _that_. But what about now?"

"They're at the American embassy."

Calliope blinked. "_How_?"

"Some guy named Andrew DuPont came and intervened."

Calliope said nothing, but sat back on her pillows. "Okay," she set her hand on her forehead. "What exactly is in my medicine, and how much of it did I have?"

"I'll get zumthing to eet," Fleur said, nodding, and left the room.

"And how do you know _her_?" Calliope asked, pointing after her.

"We met through the Weasleys. You remember Charlie?"

"Of course."

"She's marrying his brother, Bill."

"What? But she can't be older than…"

"Don't worry about it. She's old for her age."

"Did Linus ask you for help?"

"He sent me an owl. Said he didn't want to risk Mark being seen in Hogsmeade. By the time I got the message, it was too late. But," she added, "I'm pretty sure that the American Embassy is going to start being a lot more hands-on in Mark's trial. They may even get it transferred to the States."

"So you're serious? Andrew is here? In England?"

"Absolutely."

"And my testimony…"

"Was received by the court."

Calliope nodded, and squeezed Dora's hand. "I'm glad you're here," she mumbled. Dora just nodded. Calliope went on, "And I want… to see them, soon."

"We'll take care of that. Don't worry, Callie. Rest. They're at the American Embassy now."

"How long?"

"As long as they need to."

"What about staying overnight?"

"There's a hotel attached to the Embassy."

Calliope blinked. "Really?"

Dora nodded. "Yes, really."

"Why?"

"Why not? It makes a certain amount of sense."

Calliope shook her head. "I'm confused. I can't think about it this early in the morning."

"Incidentally – I owled Mum and asked her to come over. You don't mind, do you?"

"Why?"

"To be honest," Dora shifted uncomfortably, "I want her to have a look at you. It's not that I don't trust the St. Mungo's Healers, but they're busy, and, well…"

"I don't mind. It'd be nice to see your Mum again."

Fleur returned with snacks. As Calliope took hers, she said, "Thank you, and – I'm so sorry, but, what was your name again? I promise I'll remember this time."

ooo

The Wizarding American Embassy was located directly below its Muggle counterpart. Andrew proudly led Mark, Linus, and Hector into the lobby, flanked by a security wizard. The lobby, wide and low-ceilinged, glittered with yellow lamps and golden banisters. Above their heads the ceiling was sky blue with fluffy white clouds passing across it gently. The guest suite – with Shaker furniture and colorful quilts – were equally pleasant and tidy.

"Hector and Linus will share one room, and Mark and me, and then we have a common room between them. If Calliope joins us she'll have _her_ accommodations. A very hospitable Embassy, I gotta say. We can get breakfast downstairs, but…"

"I'm going to take a nap," Linus interrupted, slinking to his bedroom and closing the door. "You do that!" Andrew called after him. He shared a quick smile with Hector, then followed Mark. Mark was sitting on the bed in his and Andrew's shared room.

"That was some show, wasn't it?" Andrew asked cheerily, sitting on the bed and taking off his shoes. "I am pretty tired, I gotta say. Jet-lag. Think I'll take a nap. All those dramatic entrances can really take it out of you." He looked at his old friend. "Mark? Aren't you going to say something?"

"Is that all this is to you? Just a show?" Mark's voice was cold.

"Um, no, it's not just a show, I was just speaking lightly."

"Okay, then. Nap. Go ahead. You must be exhausted by all the incredible stress you've been through."

Andrew stared at Mark's back with surprise and anger. "Is a simple 'thank-you' too much to ask? What's with this snit?"

Mark turned around. "It's none of your business."

"None of my business!" Andrew repeated. "Geez. Sorry for coming to be a character witness. Made a nice dramatic entrance and all. Thought you'd have liked that."

"A dramatic entrance? A _dramatic entrance_? You know when I could have used a dramatic entrance? The _first time _I was sitting in that goddamn chair, being charged GUILTY!You know when I could have used a dramatic entrance? When I was standing in front of that Death Eater's house, trying to go in and rescue Calliope!"

"Jesus, I did what I could, okay? Your gratitude is really –"

"Gratitude? Oh, yes, I'm very grateful to know that my best friend 'knows me better than I know myself'!"

"If you didn't notice, I was saving your life!"

"Yes." Mark took a deep breath. "You saved my life. I thank you. But bragging to the entire court about –"

"I wasn't bragging!"

"My best friend since third grade, _third grade_, reveals he's been lying to me my whole life –"

"I only found out when I was ten!"

"You tried to modify my _memories! _You deceived me and called it friendship and went behind my back with Calliope and Scalia and _everyone_ and you have the balls to declare to the whole court that you 'know Mark Printzen better than he knows himself.'"

"Do you – how _dare_ you? I put so much into our friendship, to stay in touch with you, so many other Muggleborns just drop their old friends like _that_. I _care_ about you, that's why I stayed with you!"

"So you thought lying would be the best policy."

"Jesus, I did not set out to make your life miserable, I _had_ to for the Secrecy laws…"

"You could have told me! You could have told me _anything_ and I would have kept it a secret because friends _trust_ each other!"

"I meant to tell you."

"Oh, really? When?"

"I kept putting it off and don't look at me like I've stabbed you in the back!"

"Putting it off like you put off responding to my letter?"

"It took a few days for your owl to cross the Atlantic—"

"My _owl_? You mean it was sent by _owl_?"

"It… it's tradition."

"You guys are wizards and you can't come up with anything faster than _owls_?"

"You're being a – you're—"

"Yes? What am I?"

Andrew put his hands up. "I'm not even going to talk to you if you're going to be like this, and have no respect for what I've done. I saved you from Presumption, for all that you're going to thank me for it." He turned around.

Mark's voice was low and dangerous. "You said we were best friends, but you lied to me for fifteen goddamn years, and you weren't there when I needed you. And you wonder why I'm angry."

Before Andrew could respond, Mark stalked past him, to the door, pushing him aside roughly. "Hey—"

But when Mark opened the door, Linus was already there. His glasses were missing, and so he glared indistinctly to the air and said, "Either you guys pipe down right this second or _I_ am going to be the one getting angry. Got it?" Before waiting for an answer, he shut the door.

Silence fell. Mark put his hand on the doorknob again, but Andrew said, "No. Mark – I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me. I didn't know what had happened to Calliope until after the trial was over. I would have – I am so sorry. But I can't turn back time. Not yet, anyway," he added, almost hopefully.

"I'm sorry for what I said," Mark answered contritely. "And for – shoving you. I'm still angry, but I'm sorry. Somehow. I don't know. I don't know what to do now…"

"You sure? Because – well, I'm honest, I could use a good nap. But you could go exploring, or…"

"Callie!" Mark started up. "I've got to go and see her. Will you come with me to St. Mungo's?"

"Whoa. Slow down there, partner. This is American soil."

"… So?"

"You're…" Andrew winced, "you're in the jurisdiction."

"Please tell me that does _not_ mean that I am imprisoned somewhere else, just someplace nicer, but I still have to report to somebody higher-up who's got magic and attitude for every little move I make."

Andrew frowned. "I wasn't able to completely follow that. But I think you have the gist of it."

Mark made a fist with one hand, and with the other, began to tap very loudly on the door. "You realize I've just spent a week in jail, right?"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. But, there's an Ambassador who's taken charge of your case. I don't know his name for sure, but he's now your guardian, kind of."

"Because, of course, a Muggle needs a caretaker."

"Look, he's not an unreasonable guy. I don't know if you can meet him personally, but you can write to him."

"He doesn't have time to meet with me personally? I don't think I want him taking care of me."

"Will you calm down, man?"

"I'm finding that kind of difficult right now!" Mark burst out. Then he leaned against the door. "I think that I need a little time to myself."

"I can understand that. Ask, say, that you want to see Calliope. Maybe he'll let you visit her. Or have her come here. That'd be nice, right?"

Mark gave a little nod, but he was frowning, and he opened the door as if eager to get out of there. "Hey, what's wrong?" Andrew asked. "You can tell me."

Mark just looked at Andrew, a silent stare from hazel eyes to dark brown ones. Without a word, Mark left the room.

ooo

Later that day, when Andromeda Tonks visited Calliope, the patient took one look at her and jumped. She recoiled. Mrs. Tonks' smile died. "Calliope," she said carefully.

At once the young lady relaxed, and began apologizing. "Mrs. Tonks – it's so good to see you – I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I thought you were…" she stumbled, "someone else."

"You thought I was my sister, Bellatrix?" Mrs. Tonks asked.

Calliope couldn't look her old friend in the face. She nodded.

Carefully, Mrs. Tonks took her hand and sat down. "Don't worry about it for now, dear," she said. "Let's just start off slowly. How do you feel today?"

Calliope answered all of her questions, those that were personal and those that were clinically detached. She knew that Mrs. Tonks was a specialist in what Muggles called psychology, and she was glad to know that the inevitable examination was being done with someone who she knew had her best interests at heart.

Mrs. Tonks was far less certain. She did not perform Leglimency – that represented a gross breach of privacy – but Calliope's answers had a vagueness that was very unlike her. She complained of an aching headache time and again. Her mistaking Mrs. Tonks for her sister was also very unsettling.

She gently coaxed Calliope to tell the story of how she had been kidnapped. Calliope could recall every detail of the attack on Hollywyck easily. However, it was only with effort that she could bring herself to give a brief, and by no means detailed, account of her time in the Death Eater's cellar. Calliope told her about her arrival there, her finding the small notebook that had belonged to her uncle, and which had her own writing in it. She mentioned that a couple of days passed before she got the attention of "that lovely French girl with the nice singing voice," and then she only said that she "distracted" the Death Eater and got to escape that way.

Mrs. Tonks noticed that Calliope's account only added up to four days total, when she had been missing for a week. Furthermore, she frequently repeated details, or interrupted herself to correct something she'd said earlier. And there were many, many questions she simply would not answer.

Mrs. Tonks, after she left Calliope to rest some more, corroborated with another St. Mungo's Healer, one who analyzed witnesses for the Wizengamot, to see if she was fit to testify. Mrs. Tonks got in touch with Mr. Quirke – for that was the man – at the first opportunity. It turned out, he wanted to talk with her, too. They met at Mr. Quirke's office.

"I just came back from seeing the patient, ma'am," he said. "I understand you've known her a long time?"

"Nearly all her life," Mrs. Tonks sat down. "Her mother and I were close friends."

"I see. I was hoping you could fill in some gaps that I have…"

"That's exactly what I wanted."

"I'll write up the report to send to the Wizengamot – give you partial credit of course –"

"Of course."

Mr. Quirke pushed back the long sleeves of his robe and picked up his notes. The first question he posed was, had Calliope been in the past fond of drawing?

Mrs. Tonks said no, not that she could remember. Mr. Quirke then handed her a scrap of newspaper – a margin filled with doodles. It was just some loose and clumsy sketches of trees, animals, and a little hand. Mr. Quirke said that the patient had been drawing those as he came in, and then showed them to him when he asked. At the end of the session Calliope had said, "Don't you want your drawings?" in a most polite way, he added. She had no precise memory of having drawn them.

As Mr. Quirke said, this was a bit troubling.

The joint report that they finished and owled to the judges was succinct and clear: Calliope Ollivander's mind had, according to all tests and indications, undergone a serious trauma. Her short-term memory had been compromised. But on the details of her abduction, she was lucid and ready enough to talk. However, they recommended that she perhaps prepare a testimony by proxy, or else that the trial be delayed until she recuperated somewhat.

Which was why the next day's _Daily Prophet_ article on page six, "_Calliope Ollivander Declared Insane_," with "_Unfit to Testify, Say Experts_" in smaller letters, shocked a few people.


	8. The Lunatic

The Lunatic

A/N: And this week's Special Guest Stars – yes, you get three for your money – one is Fleur Delacour, making her Return. The other two will not be spoiled because I think it's just too fun.

Also, 'Danny the Doubtful Dragon' originates from the superb fanfiction, 'Interwoven,' and its sequels, by Katinka. Check them out, they are well worth your time.

* * *

><p>Linus had his head in his hands. "I knew it," he was muttering, "Oh god, I knew it."<p>

"I don't believe it," Mark insisted stubbornly. His arms were crossed and he was pacing anxiously back and forth. "I _will_ not believe it until I see her again. Face to face."

"I don't know, guys." Hector frowned as he looked at the paper in his hands.

"Can I see that?" Andrew asked.

"Sure."

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," Linus said in the same defeated voice as before.

"This is the end of our defense," Hector said.

"Why are you two giving up?" Mark demanded.

"We are not giving up," Linus glared at him. "We are facing facts."

"I thought you didn't trust the newspapers?"

"Mark has a point," Andrew was scanning the article. "Nowhere in here does it directly quote the report by these so-called 'experts.' I think there's some misleading going on here."

There was a knock at the door and Dora came in. She glanced at Andrew. "Good, you read it already." She closed the door behind her.

"It's not true, right?" Mark demanded.

"It's not, except in the Ministry's eyes. Listen, because I've got to get back to Hogwarts soon. I've seen Calliope and spoken to her. My mum assisted on that report. Mum and I agree that Callie is _not_ insane."

"Told you so," Mark muttered, greatly relieved.

As Linus sighed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Dora went on, "She has, however, had a great shock. She's – changed. But not irrevocably. Distracted, uncertain, clumsy, but still Calliope. Still sane. But you know why she's been labeled _as_ insane, right?"

"So she can't testify on my – on our – behalf," Mark said.

"Exactly. But it's not just the Ministry that is intent on keeping her quiet."

"Death Eaters," Linus muttered. "We've entered a whole new game."

"That's right. And it'd take something extraordinary to let Calliope be released from hospital, though she wants to join you here."

"Will she be safe there?" Mark demanded.

"St. Mungo's security is very good," Dora admitted. "Nothing to sneeze at. And they've tripled their watch since last Christmas…"

"When that Unspeakable ran into that… yeah," Hector nodded.

"But don't _worry_. I am on top of this."

"You have an inside agent?" Andrew asked.

"I am not going to tell you."

"That means, yes, doesn't it?" Andrew smiled.

ooo

Insane. Insane. Insane.

The patient sat on her bed, knees drawn up, eyes wide. The nurse had taken the Daily Prophet away, but Calliope was still trying to absorb it. She saw the black and white words before her eyes. Insane. She was insane. She wanted to deny it, but it seemed almost logical. This explained her short-term memory loss, the way she sometimes felt like a different person. She was insane.

"_Bonjour, Mademoiselle!_" The French soprano sailed into the room like a figure straight out of an Impressionist painting, all pastels and bright smiles and impossible good looks. She had a big basket over one arm. "_Comment ça va?"_ She asked, and proceeded to chatter gaily in French. She didn't appear to notice Calliope's despondency. "So, I hope you don't mind me dropping in on you, just to chat, and to do a little catching up on _my_ personal project." She reached into the basked and produced a plain white china teacup. "Painting china!"

"What is wrong with you?" Calliope snapped in English. "How can you be so _happy_?"

She stared, then shrugged. "Hyu do not 'ave to be so rude. Would you like to paint zumthing? It might make hyu feel better."

"_Non, merci_. I can't draw anyway."

She did not start painting. "If you wan' me to go, I will go. I do not wan' to be where I am not wanted."

"No, Miss – stay. I would like the company. I'm sorry for yelling." Calliope couldn't meet the other woman's eyes.

"Fleur Delacour," she supplied.

"_Merci_, Fleur. I apologize for not remembering."

"_De rien_, eet is nothing." From there Fleur returned to French and stayed there. "So I am painting all this for use in my new house. It will be by the sea, which is why I am painting seashells. See?" Proudly she held up a half-completed saucer to show it off.

Calliope reflected that the seashells reflected no marine biology she had ever heard of, but still nodded appreciatively. "Charming. This house – you're going to get married, yes?""

"Ah, yes!" Fleur sighed rapturously. "To the handsomest, bravest, cleverest man in all of England – so sorry, dearie, if you hoped you'd marry the handsomest cleverest bravest man, I already got him. My Bill. He works for Gringotts – he was a curse breaker (he loves adventure), now he is a diplomat with the goblins, he is so good at Gobbledegook, and he is so kind to children… Do you know him? Bill Weasley?"

"Weasley? Yes, I know the Weasleys. Charlie and I were the same year."

Fleur beamed. "Yes, Charlie is a polite gentleman, if rather… earthy."

"But Bill was always very nice, I guess."

"You _guess_?"

"We were in different Houses. I was Ravenclaw, he Gryffindor."

"Oh, I made friends in Ravenclaw at the Triwizard Tournament," Fleur nodded. "A very refined house."

"But, by the way, how are the Weasleys doing? I haven't heard much of them lately."

Fleur pursed her lips. "The two youngest are still in school. The twins have opened a shop for jokes, toys, games. Percy is no longer of them."

"What?" Into Calliope's mind flashed an image of a fastidious, flame-headed little boy with glasses who followed his brother Bill at Hogwarts like a lost puppy. "He's not dead?"

"No. He had an argument. His father allied with Dumbledore. Percy allied with the Ministry of Magic. They no longer speak, him or anyone of the family."

"Oh, my…" Calliope tried to imagine if such a rift came between her and Linus. "I had no idea."

"Yes, everyone's upset about it," Fleur said, in the tone of one who is sick to death of the topic at hand. She set the teacup she'd been working on aside and picked up the sugar bowl.

Calliope tried to bring the conversation onto a less touchy subject, "But the rest of the family! I've never met Mrs. Weasley, but I've heard so much about her, and, oh, I definitely remember the Easter baskets she'd send to Charlie. He was always so generous in sharing them with us. How do you like her?"

"Oh. Mrs. Weasley." Fleur said very slowly, putting down the paintbrush and contemplating the sugar bowl. "She – is – a – character."

Calliope had a premonition of danger.

"Funny, isn't it, how everyone talks about how warm, generous, loving, she is, to everyone, while to me she has always been cold, and brusque, and spiteful. _Not _that I am not used to this behavior – women and girls have always treated me like that, from when I was a little girl – but them, I can ignore. Them, I can walk away from. But _this_ woman…" She took a deep breath, and went on. It seemed like this had been boiling up inside her for ages, "this hypocrite who shuts me out while she cosettes everyone else, is the one that Bill forces me to live with – _two weeks_ this past summer! He makes me go shopping with her, he does not understand that shopping is a _very big deal _to me. I am supposed to expect visits from her for all my married life, because she'll want _grandchildren_. I _try_ to smile. I try to be cheerful. It is not the life I am used to, but I put up with it for as long as I have to, because Bill loves his family."

She had picked up the paintbrush again and was stabbing at the porcelain with it, sending tiny flecks of cerulean blue flying everywhere.

"And I love that about him! I do! Family is _so_ important, I'm glad he and I agree on it! But his mother is such a – such a _stereotype_! And his sister is such a mean-spirited, sneering little brat! They hate me and they make absolutely no secret of it. I hate them, but I at least try to hide it. I feel sick in that house, but I do it because I love Bill, because I chose to live in _this_ country instead of France, where my friends are and where _my _family is, and Mrs. Weasley cannot appreciate this! All she sees is the fact that I _hate_ countryside farm life with nothing to do but boring work. And she threw a hissy fit because I won't change my maiden name. And she cannot accept that I want a _career_ and I want independence because I'm the Triwizard Champion of Beauxbatons, and it is the twentieth century, and I do not want to spend my whole life stuck in some pathetic backwater popping out babies like _she_ has!"

For a moment Fleur's lovely face was transfixed with anger. Then she took a shallow breath and looked at the sugar bowl. "I messed it up," she took her wand and the paint was swiped off, and wriggled back into the tubes whence it had come.

Fleur didn't move to resume her painting. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," she said in English. "But – I just _'ad_ to say it. There is no one 'ere who really listens to me since I arrived. I write letters to my family and friends, but I want them to think I'm 'appy – I try to tell Bill what's wrong, but, it's his mother. But – I should not 'ave used hyu as a – what is the word? A bag for punching?"

"It's fine," Calliope assured her. "I actually feel a bit better now."

"Oh?"

"I was worried about being insane, but hearing your story reminds me that sanity is not all it's cracked up to be."

"Hyu are not insane," Fleur said flatly.

"How do you know?"

"I just know. Besides, zat Umbridge woman is tweesting the facts. She ees fond of zat, according to Bill's littlest brother and his sister."

"You're sure?"

"_Absolutement_. And, Mademoiselle – "

"You can call me Calliope."

"Calliope," Fleur tested out the name slowly, then smiled, and said in very measured English, "Thank you for listening to me."

"Thank you for trusting in me," Calliope replied quietly.

"And now, what ees that phrase you used? 'Cracked up'? Eet eentrigues me."

As Calliope tried to explain it, a nurse came into the ward pushing in a tray of potions. He left a few potions with every patient, and when he came to Calliope he said, "Mail call," and handed her a letter. She read it as he put her medical potions onto the table next to her.

"What is zat?" Fleur asked.

"It's postmarked Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts," Calliope read. "From a girl I met once."

"_Non_, I meant, what are the potions?"

Calliope shrugged. "They're just my daily medicines. I could tell you what they all do, I asked…"

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary." Fleur looked rather discomfited at the idea of medicine. "You can read your little letter." As she settled back into her painting, Calliope opened the envelope, took a dose of her medicines, and began to read with interest (and the occasional inward comment.)

Dear Miss Ollivander,

I was very sorry to hear that you were kidnapped, and sorrier still to hear that the Death Eaters were responsible. I have met a few and they were very unpleasant. ('_Well, that's one way of putting it._') But I'm glad to know you are safe and sound in St. Mungo's. I've stayed there before myself. The Healers are ever so nice. (_'What occasion did _she_ have to be here?_') And I was piqued to hear that you were named 'insane' by the Ministry of Magic. I didn't realize they had a panel of experts dedicated to mental health. But I am rather interested in your insanity, all the same. ('_So am I_.') I have been called insane on several occasions, but I know myself to be quite in my right mind – then again, I cannot say that it would be the right mind for anyone else who might have it. I think you are still in your right mind, too. Let us talk more. Don't despair, for that may be the sign of Wrackspurts nearby. They have a strong effect in places like hospitals and sickbeds.

What followed was a list of ways to prevent Wrackspurt infestations, recognize the symptoms, and treat them, as well as a description of goings-on since Luna's fifth school year had started. It ended,

Please feel better soon, and feel free to write to me whenever you like, if you're not too busy.

Yours kindly,

Luna Lovegood

"How very kind of her," Calliope said, then she noticed a postscript.

P.S. I read that you have a Muggle friend. Could you ask him if he is a Trekkie? Because I have heard very interesting things about Trekkies, and I would like to know more.

"What ees so funny?" Fleur asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just something I'm going to have to tell Mark… I'm sure he'll know the right way to reply…"

Fleur gave an arch smile. "Why are you blushing?"

"What? I'm not blushing."

"You are."

Calliope put her hand up to her cheek and didn't answer. She heard a rattling noise: it sounded like the nurse with the rolling tray had returned.

"Who ees this Mark, if I may ask?"

"He's a friend of mine. He's a Muggle. He was arrested for Presumption, but it was a mistake. A misunderstanding."

"Ees he a friend or…"

The nurse had come back and had placed a bright red potion on Calliope's bedside table.

"Excuse me," Calliope said, pointing, "but what's this?"

"That's just a tonic for your nerves," the nurse replied phlegmatically. "Nothing to worry about. But Mrs. Tonks and Mr. Quirke agreed you should take it."

"Mrs. Tonks didn't tell me I would need anything in specific…" Calliope frowned at the bottle.

"You must take it," the nurse repeated. "If you don't, you will feel very unwell."

"Why didn't I take this-"

"_Mon amie_," Fleur said softly, interrupting her, "_Soies prudente_." Be careful.

Calliope fell silent, and picked up the little round bottle. "Never mind. Thank you."

The nurse nodded and left.

"_Don' drink eet_," Fleur had put down the paintbrush and porcelain plate without a sound. "Remain calm."

"Me? I'm perfectly calm," Calliope lied.

Fleur stood up and hurried over to the door. She met the nurse in the hallway. "Monsieur? I have a question."

"I'm on duty," he said flatly, pushing his cart forward.

"_Monsieur!_" Fleur put a force in her voice that could make men turn around to face her, whether they wanted to or not. It was only with a great effort that the man pushing the cart turned around. And when he did, Fleur Delacour's rosewood wand was in her hand.

"_Finite Imper_—"

But the man had taken his wand out, too. Fleur just managed to doge his Stunning Spell.

There was an awful commotion in the corridor. Calliope slipped out of her bed, reasonably certain that she was the cause of it. In the hallway, she found a fight between the male nurse, attacking, and Fleur, on the defense.

Automatically, Calliope felt for her wand, but it wasn't there. She cursed, and the floor tilted.

No, that wasn't right. She just was having a dizzy spell. She leaned against the doorframe for a moment. As soon as she felt steady enough, she hurried back to her bedside and took her pitcher of water. Some of it sloshed over her hospital gown as she ran back to the door. "_Recule!_" she shouted at Fleur.

Aiming precisely, she spilled the water under the feet of the male nurse. He slipped, and Fleur was ready. She stopped his fall with a "_Pendulego_." Then she declared, in the full sight of all those who had come to stare, "_Finite Imperiusum_."

ooo

The nurse sat with his head in his hands, and kept saying, over and over, "I didn't mean to, I didn't know what I was doing."

The potion experts in the hospital at once analyzed the alien "medicine." The official report came back, saying that the potion was of no precise recipe known to the panel of experts. From what they could deduce of the ingredients, it was a slow-acting poison, which would gradually make the drinker more erratic, unstable, and violent, possibly towards herself. The imprecise proportions of ingredients led one of the panelists to suggest that the potion had been made up as it was created, "improvised."

None of this made Calliope feel much better.

The nurse who had served it said he had no memory of receiving it, only that he knew he had to give it to Miss Ollivander. The investigator had asked Fleur how she suspected the nurse was under the Imperius Curse. She merely shrugged and said lightly, "I 'ave learned to reconnize de curse of Imperius."

Calliope had been allowed into the investigation, in a wheelchair, which she found quite unnecessary. She tapped one foot as it came to an end. "So," She said to the man pushing her chair, "Will I be released soon?

The caretaker, a rabbity man with pince-nez spectacles, blinked at her. "Beg pardon?"

"Maybe, release me to the American Embassy?"

"Miss Ollivander, I'm not sure you understand. You're in this ward for your own safety."

"I'm not mad."

"That's not for you to determine, dear." He patted her on the shoulder.

She flinched away. "Have you _read_ the report?"

"I read the article about it—"

"The article was wrong! I am not mad. Ask Mrs. Tonks."

The man was now wheeling her back to her room. "I would not wish to go against the wishes of the Ministry."

"What about _my_ wishes?"

"You are still in a state of shock, Miss. Everything you say must –"

"I am not mad! And I'm not safe here."

"Please, stay calm. I assure you, you are perfectly safe here. We shall increase your security tenfold…"

"I want to see my friends and brother again."

"Would you be safer in the American Embassy?"

She couldn't answer that, so the caretaker said, not unkindly, "Rest for now. Rest assured that your security will be an even higher priority now. I truly am sorry to cause you any distress." And he wouldn't listen to anything else that she had to say.

ooo

Meanwhile, Mr. Turpin Rowle had made a full recovery, but was still rather jumpy. He was escorted by his brother and sister-in-law out of St. Mungo's, and he returned to his own home.

ooo

"What's the mail?" Hector asked as Andrew and Mark re-entered the suite. "Anything for… whoa." Both of the men were carrying large sacks of envelopes, which they dumped onto the floor. "Merry Christmas," Mark chirped.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but is there anything for me?" Linus put down the newspaper he was trying to read.

Andrew held up a small bundle of letters in one dark hand. "Well, there are plenty of letters from people who only know us through the press releases—"

"Which I'm going to call, 'fan mail,'" Mark added.

"—But there were a few letters addressed personally, so I think we should look at those. One for you, Hector – a few for you, Linus – and for Mark and me –"

"Nothing! High-five!" Mark held out his hand and Andrew slapped it good-naturedly. Linus eyed the sacks. "What about your 'fan mail'?"

"Nothing that we really want to read," Mark said. "The mailperson said that there was a 'Howler' for me, which exploded because it wasn't opened. I don't know if most of the letters are going to be like that, but it's making me kind of edgy."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't read them."

"Well, let's see…" Mark picked one up. "This one is addressed, 'To 'Muggle Mark Printzen' – I didn't realize Muggle was a title nowadays. This one right here is just to 'The Muggle, care of the American Embassy.' Can you blame me for dismissing them?"

Linus gave a little sniff and scanned his letters. His face was grim. "Hex them all," he muttered.

"Hex them to heck?" Mark suggested.

Ignoring him, Linus said, "I owled my fellow Obliviators asking for books on what I think may have happened to Calliope. I got the responses. They all chicken out: I'd love to help but I'm too busy – my friend the attorney advised me to have no contact with you – I don't know about your sister, but T.R. is a fine leader and how dare you slander him."

"See if _he_ gets a Christmas card this year," Hector muttered from behind his letter.

Linus read, in a tone of great bitterness, "You had better keep your head down, you already hurt Amity, I don't want more trouble – damn them all!" He threw the letters down.

"Isn't anyone helpful?" Mark asked.

The Obliviator fingered one letter. "Yes. One colleague. E.C."

"Can't you use his real name?" Mark asked.

"Professionalism, Printzen. He says he can locate some books that may help me, but I'd have to go there myself to pick them up. Well, I can do that…" He looked at Mark again. The man had a small note in his hand. "What's that you have?"

"It's from the ambassador," Mark said. "The one who's kind of taken charge of my case. Hm. He's left the decision up to me… That's encouraging."

"What? What has he left up to you?" Linus pressed.

"To all of us. I want to go and visit Calliope A-S-A-P, and he's going to let me do that, as long as I let him know ahead of time, and have a security escort. Well, some freedom is better than none…"

"Let's arrange a visit," Linus' voice was already growing tired. "Soon."

"You sure this is a good idea?" Andrew asked. "I mean, you're still not exactly popular with the world at large."

"I don't mind being disliked."

"What about the Death Eaters?" Hector pressed. "They go beyond dislike…"

"Look," Mark's hazel eyes glared at the two of them, "I am ready to take that risk to see Calliope again. I've _got_ to see her. You can stay here if you want."

He waited for some disagreement, but none was forthcoming. Only Linus leaned against the couch and said, "It's almost like you expect things to turn out all right."

"That's not it. But I feel like – like things _will_ start to go right when I see her again. When we see her again," he added hastily.

Linus picked up his letters and stood up. As he left, he muttered, "Nothing is ever that simple."

After he had left (presumably for another brief nap), Andrew asked Mark, "What's eating Calliope's brother?"

Mark suddenly bit his lip nervously and shifted his eyes back and forth. "I don't know," he said. "He and I have kind of been butting heads since…"

"Since you two met?" Hector offered.

Mark glared at him and Hector meekly picked up the _Daily Prophet_. Then Mark turned back to Andrew and reluctantly said, "… Pretty much." Mark started to tap his foot and began to compulsively organize the letters in front of him, even the ones he was determined not to read.

"Now what's got _you_ all upset?" Andrew asked. "Why don't you just write to the ambassador and ask him for our little day trip?"

"I'm nervous. I'm trying to decide what to do when I see _her_."

"_Ah_," Andrew said. His eyes sparkled, though he tried to keep a straight face. "Look. One step at a time, man. First we organize our visit, then we worry about what to say, just take things as they come."

"I can't! I've been waiting too long! How can I stop thinking…" he trailed off and suddenly tossed the letters aside. He stood up and began to walk around the sacks of mail – not pacing, but on edge, like he wanted to burst into dance. "I'm so close to seeing her again now…"

"Dude, calm down. Just take a deep breath."

Mark did, but it didn't help. "What am I going to say to her?"

"What?"

"Listen, Andrew." Mark sat next to him on the couch again and put a hand on Andrew's shoulder. "I realized something after Calliope was kidnapped. Something major. But it's – confidential."

Andrew nodded, silently invoking Mark's trust.

Mark took a deep breath, then said, quickly and somewhat defensively, "I'm in love with Calliope, and I want to tell her that. I've _got_ to. But I need to see her to make sure she's okay, and then Linus is really not supporting me, if you catch my drift. He would rather I said nothing but this is between myself and Callie – he doesn't even want me to call her Callie –" he paused and looked at Andrew skeptically. "I notice you don't seem surprised."

"I'm notoriously difficult to surprise," Andrew said lightly. "But I guess," he added with a straight face, "that you've also realized that, the sun shines? And grass is green? And that birds fly? Now don't give me that look."

Mark's face was indescribable. "You _knew_?"

"Mark, don't take this the wrong way, but, I know you well. And you're a fairly transparent guy!"

In the corner, Hector's copy of the _Daily Prophet_ began to shake.

"But then again, I _do_ know you well, so I may pick up on stuff others don't."

Mark was quiet, then spoke in a worried whisper, "…You think Calliope knows? I know that's, well, the least of my worries, but…"

"I don't think so. If you're exceptionally obvious, she's exceptionally unperceptive."

"Exceptionally oblivious," Hector suggested behind his newspaper.

"Thank you," Andrew said.

"You're not supposed to be listening!" Mark chided at the same time.

"And… I started by asking about Linus."

"Yes. Him. I get the feeling, I'm not good enough for her, in his eyes."

"Well, let me play devil's advocate. It's a war. He's only just gotten her back from two years in America, and if she gains a… let's say gentleman caller, he feels like he'll lose her again. Not only are you someone Linus hardly knows, you come from a world and a country that he knows very little about."

"How do you know this?"

"Hey, I've got a sister too."

"By the way – have you heard from my folks? What are they…"

"They were kind of worried about you. But I told them before I left that I was going to England to hang around with you, on some extra vacation. My parents are in on it, too."

Mark frowned. "Did you lie to my parents?"

"I told them as much of the truth as I could," Andrew said. "Like I always do. But in the meantime," now he put his hand on Mark's shoulder, "Don't worry about your parents, or about Calliope, just yet. Deal with this one step at a time."

ooo

The Ambassador (Mark began to think of the man as just that, with his name in Capital Letters) gave Mark permission to visit St. Mungo's with a proper security wizard, and Andrew, Linus, and Hector, but added that he wanted Mark to meet him in his office at least the next day.

They took a Ministry car – an understated black – to St. Mungo's.

On the way, Hector asked Mark, "Are you okay? You're all quiet."

Mark's hazel eyes strayed out the window to the London streets. "I'm just taking it all in. I mean, a car? Traffic lights? You can't believe how blessedly _normal_ this all is. And I kind of want to get out and run around – I haven't been outside much since I fell in with… you guys."

Mark didn't say much on the way, though he didn't stop looking around, as if trying to see as much of Muggle London as possible.

When they arrived at the long-abandoned, dilapidated Purge & Dowse, Mark did say, "Um – are we in the right place?"

The security wizard stepped forward and calmly addressed a dummy in neon green, with silver spats, in the window. "We're here to see Calliope Ollivander. I am Wymond Sayre, from the American Embassy." He then drew on the glass with his finger, a symbol that no one else could see. The dummy beckoned to them, and one by one the men walked through the glass. Mark commented to Andrew, "Because of course we can't just use the door."

"You're learning," Andrew replied.

Once they were all incised, Linus hurried to the receptionist's desk. The plump blonde witch put down the magazine she was reading as Linus explained what they were there for.

The waiting room was not crowded, but there were enough people there to make Mark stare in horror. A woman moaned faintly as she tried to keep the small dogwood trees that had sprouted in place of her hands close to the lamps; two parents fanned the air desperately but carefully to keep a boy-shaped column of smoke in one piece, if not in one place, while another boy followed them wailing "I didn't _mean_ to!"

"Come on, "Linus said, "Fourth floor, spell damage, let's go. Mark, don't stare."

The men walked in single file, which the Security wizard (a tall, silent man with gray sideburns and red gloves) led. The only one who broke formation was Andrew, who would speed up or slow down his walk to walk beside Mark or Hector and talk to them both in whispers. To Mark he said, "Still worried about what to say? Don't worry. Just be yourself. And it's true, we've got more than just romance to worry about now."

"I just hope I don't blush."

"That's the spirit."

Then he'd hurry ahead until he was beside Hector and say, "Say, man, you know this budding romance plot?"

"I'm getting to know it better all the time," Hector quipped.

"What's your scoop on it? Especially regarding the closest male kinsman of the _inamorata_?" he jerked his head to indicate Linus, in case it wasn't already clear.

"Have you been in a room with those two for more than ten minutes?" Hector brushed his pale blonde hair away from his silver eyes. "The closest male kinsman isn't giving his blessing anytime soon."

Mark interrupted, "Shoot, you could have asked _me_ that…"

"You're not supposed to be listening!"

"What, you're not doing a soliloquy."

"It's called espionage. Now ssh. You work on your utterly winning profession of…"

"Oh, shut up." Mark blushed. "And there I go…"

"You never know, there may be some handsome patient who's got his eye on…" Hector teased.

"I said shut up!"

ooo

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have to say, that wasn't you, sir."

The man blinked at Calliope. "Huh?" In his confusion, he smiled – brilliantly, to be sure, if vapidly.

But Calliope only shook her head. "That wasn't you."

"But I'm sure – it was all so vivid…"

"Sir, you're describing a book. And I've read that book. It's not you."

"How do you know that book wasn't about me?" His wavy blond hair shook back and forth in his indignity.

"Because that book is '_Danny the Doubtful Dragon_,' and you, sir, are not a dragon."

"But – it was so vivid!"

"I'm afraid illustrations are like that."

The man's face fell. "Maybe I was, once…"

"Well, don't worry." Calliope nodded, feeling sorry for him, "It's like this film I saw once."

"What's a film?"

"Never mind. If you're brave, honest, noble, and true, someday you'll be a real boy."

He brightened. "You think so?"

She nodded.

"Oh, thank you! You're such a nice lady!"

"Maybe you'd better be getting back, now."

"Oh, maybe." He stood up and ambled away without saying good-bye. Just as he disappeared behind the curtain around Calliope's bed, his voice rang out again. "I suppose you fellows are here for my autograph, aren't you?"

"Who?" Calliope sat up, but the curtain blocked her view.

"You know, someday I'm going to be a real boy," the patient confided with glee.

Then Calliope heard a voice that she knew: "What – is that you, Pinocchio?"

Then another, "I don't _even_ want to know."

"Mark!" Calliope cried. "Linus!"

And they were there, standing at her bedside, and Linus was hugging her and whispering, "Everything's going to be okay now, Shrimp. I promise."

And over Linus' shoulder she saw Mark, smiling. He had taken her hand somehow – his hand was warm, and comforting.

Then the mellifluous voice broke in again. "By the way, Miss…"

Calliope and Linus both stared at the man with the dazzling, vacant smile. He cocked a roguish eyebrow and said, "I'll be on the fifth floor, should you ever want some… personalized autographs."

Linus and Mark wore identical expressions of outrage. Calliope only said, "Fifth floor. I'll remember. Probably," she added in an undertone.

Hector pointed after the man now toddling out of the Spell Damage ward and said, "Was that _Gilderoy Lockhart_?"

"I have no idea, and neither does he." Calliope said.

"I think it was." Linus shook his head. "He's notorious among Obliviators. But that's enough – forget him." Then he quickly added, "I didn't mean it like that! Er… let's sit down."

"Allow me." Andrew took out his wand and conjured up four chairs around Calliope's bedside.

"Andrew," Calliope asked. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh, the usual thing," he said. "Being cool, making dramatic entrances, being a character witness." He clapped Mark on the back. "Mark here sent me an owl the first time he was in jail. It took a while for me to respond, but when I did, I was able to pull a few strings."

She looked from him to Mark. He was looking at her, smiling in a dazed way. "Hi."

"How are you?" She realized her hand was cold again; he had let her go.

""Oh, so-so, I guess… not happy to have been imprisoned but glad to be out of there, still a bit nervous, bit edgy, but I'm glad to see you again, yes, how are you?" He said all that very fast.

She had to smile too, and she felt out of practice. "I'm much better for seeing all of you." She looked to all of them, "But I'm not – quite – normal-feeling. I still get confused sometimes, and – I have trouble remembering sometimes, but overall, I'm much better than I was a few days ago."

"Do you remember what happened to you?" Linus asked.

"Yes. I try not to. Believe me."

"Would you like to talk about—"

"No, Linus. I would not."

"But, Calliope, we have to prepare a testimony soon or—"

"I'll be more than happy to accuse him, but I don't want to talk about what he did to me."

A current of anger went through the four men. "But," Linus said, "the sooner we know what's been done to you, the sooner we can treat you."

"For the last time, I do not want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe later. Now stop asking." She sighed and crossed her arms, mumbling something.

"What was that?" Hector asked.

"I said, I want my wand. I haven't had it since – since the night I left Boston."

"I'm still really sorry about that," Mark said.

"He told me that _you_ had it," she said to Hector.

He sighed. "I'm sorry, but… I was planning on bringing the wand to you when we rescued you. So they found me with it when we were arrested. It's back in the court's custody."

"You took a plum wand, though, right?" Linus said. "A plum wand that Mum had used."

"Yes," Calliope agreed, "But when I was disarmed and Stunned, it probably changed ownership. Besides, it's at Hollywyck now. I could really just use my linden wand right now."

"I'm sorry," Mark said again.

"I don't blame you," Calliope said, not meeting his eyes, "I mean, you did take it with you all the way to England. But… I mean, it was a gift from Uncle Servaas. It was…" She squeezed her eyes shut and put one hand up to her forehead. "Ow…"

"Are you okay?"

"What is it?" Linus and Mark asked together.

"Nothing. My head just hurts, that's all."

"A-hem."

They looked towards the door to see a tall and stern-looking woman wearing a long green dress, with a red handbag, and wearing a tall hat with what appeared to be a stuffed vulture. She took three steps towards them and glared down at Calliope with especial scrutiny.

"Am I addressing Miss Calliope Ollivander?" she demanded.

"You are." Calliope tried to sit up. Linus began hurriedly, "Ma'am, despite what you may have heard, my sister is not mad, and she is not to be gawked at like a – a –" his sentence faltered under the glower he received, until he finished, "A thing that people gawk at."

She let him finish. Then in a tone of brass and steel, the woman said, "Do not speak to me of madness, young man, nor of gawking. I want to observe Miss Ollivander."

"Observe just what about me?"

"To see if you are insane," was the aloof reply.

"I never believed it for a minute," Mark said confidentially to his friend. "Not when I read it in the papers, and not now." And he smiled encouragingly at Calliope, then jumped when the visitor addressed him.

"You. You're the Presumptuous Muggle, aren't you?" She peered at him through a lorgnette. "I've heard of you."

"Yes, I am a Muggle, but I would like to know who _you_ are," Mark replied.

"And how is your grandson doing?" Hector piped up, surprising them all.

"He is doing well, thank you." She inclined her head. "Taking Advanced Charms this year – _tut!_"

"Any mishaps with his new wand?"

"None whatsoever. He is very happy with it."

"Excellent." He stood up. "Please, allow me to introduce – everyone, this is Lady Augusta Longbottom. Her grandson Neville bought a new wand the day before – Uncle vanished. She is –" he paused, "a valued customer."

The stern woman did not stay much longer. But the next day identical letters appeared on the desks of all the Wizengamot judges, and the Daily Prophet, and even Rufus Scrimgeour himself. They were not Howlers, but silent epistles. They were written on embossed stationery bearing the shield of the Longbottom family, in sapphire calligraphy.

Each of them read:

"I have seen Miss Ollivander with my own two eyes, and to call her insane is to grossly insult not only herself, but the legacies of soldiers in the First War who have lost their minds, completely and irrevocably, to the Death Eaters. If you do not rescind your statement and issue a full apology, I shall take decisive action."

Calliope was discharged from St. Mungo's two days later.


	9. If All Shall Be Revealed

If All Shall Be Revealed

A/N: First of all, allow me to apologize. I was awfully remiss in failing to wish anyone (in the United States at least) a happy premier of the final _Harry Potter_ movie. I saw it myself (midnight show, natch, wearing my old Sugar Quill shirt) and liked it tremendously. I hope that all of your showings of _Deathly Hallows Part Two_ were happy, and that your re-watchings are similarly joyous! (John Hurt as Mr. Ollivander is particularly great, as I knew he would be.)

This chapter has one of my favorite Linus moments, so Linus fans (I know you're out there), you're in luck.

Theme music for this chapter is from the musical '_Next to Normal_': "Make Up Your Mind/Catch Me I'm Falling." Look it up on Youtube, very good song. The title is taken from the A. L. de Sauveterre fanfic, _Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus_. Love that fic.

* * *

><p>The next day was dark with rain. Even in the Obliviators and Paramnesiac Department, the synthetic windows reflected a cloudly sky. It seemed oddly appropriate to Linus as he walked down the corridor to his office, alone.<p>

He did not wear his Stone Cloak that day, but plain black robes. In his left hand he carried an empty briefcase. As his former colleagues passed him, they would avert their eyes. But he didn't care. He only stopped at the door of his small office. He opened the door and –

"What?" he cried.

His former officemate, Edmund Clarkson (commonly known as E.C.), lifted his head. "What is it?"

"Where are my things? Why is my desk empty?"

He frowned. "You've, um… you've been in prison, and on the run, and in trial? Right?"

"Yes."

"So, um, you're… kind of sacked."

"Then where's my stuff now?"

"Um, check the cupboard."

Linus opened the cupboard to find his things in boxes. With a few waves of his wand (and many grumbles), he had transferred all of his effects to his briefcase.

"Well," he said to E.C., "Be seeing you." He stood up and went to the door.

"Wait!" Edmund stood up from behind his desk. He blurted out, "I'm very sorry about what's happened to your sister. And to Amity. We're all sorry about that. That shouldn't have happened, but I don't blame you for it. I want you to know that."

Linus wanted to smile, but couldn't muster up the willpower. 'Thank you, Edmund."

"You were always a fine Obliviator," Edmund went on.

"Thank you," Linus repeated. "Now, just because I'm leaving now, that doesn't mean –"

"Why, Mr. Ollivander!"

– came a horribly familiar voice from down the hall. Linus turned. T.R. was leading a squad of Obliviators, fresh from some field assignment, down the hall.

"You," Linus snarled. Then he noticed the faces of the people behind T.R. They were regarding their leader with curiosity and respect, and eying Linus with suspicion.

"I'm sorry I can't say that it is a pleasure to see you again," T. R. went on. "I suppose you're cleaning out your desk?"

"Yes," Linus said through gritted teeth. His hands were in fists so tight they trembled and he had to restrain himself not to reach for his wand.

"A shame, truly. Perhaps, one day, if this debacle you've gotten yourself into is sorted out, I may allow you to re-enter our ranks."

Linus didn't trust himself to speak. He gave a curt and pointed nod to E.C., then turned to go.

"Linus Ollivander, my student." Linus flinched at the touch of the hand on his shoulder, and was made to turn and look T.R. in the face. "I don't want us to part on bad terms. Let me tell you, wizard-to-wizard: I have already forgiven you everything. Every injury you have done me."

Someone "Ooohed."

To complete the melodrama, the Omniamnist extended his hand.

Linus, without thinking, smacked it away.

"It takes two to make a quarrel," T.R. murmured, his eyes sad.

Then, as if he had only just noticed the crowd around them, he gestured. "Go on, all of you. You know your duties." As the sea of grey robes dispersed, he added to Linus, "By the way, I must recommend a book in your plight: 'After the Storm: Repairing the Mind Afflicted By Trauma,' by Dymphna Edgedance. Very clear and thoughtful." Now they were alone. "And if you need, perhaps, a second opinion in aiding your sister, I would be, of course, happy—"

"I'll be _damned_," Linus spat in a low, furious voice, "If I ever let you – if ever you—" The world was spinning around Linus. He felt like he wanted to lie down and sleep for hours, and his brain would not cooperate, would not give him the words he needed so badly.

"Yes, Ollivander?" Turpin asked, not hiding the amused edge to his voice. "Speak clearly."

Linus felt sick to his stomach with rage and helplessness. All the nightmares that he had suffered since his memory loss fell back upon him. He wanted to make them real – to visit all their horror upon the man in front of him, his once-teacher.

And T.R., of course, saw all.

"Go home, Ollivander." Said he, softly. "Go home to your broken sister and your broken family. One day, maybe, you'll build up a new name with the Obliviators… it's a crazy world, after all. Enough sycophantism should get you there. I shouldn't wonder; you applied enough of it to me."

"I am what you taught me to be!" Linus cried out – and then, in his anger, suddenly two ideas occurred to him. The first was like a beam of sunlight breaking in on his mind:

_I am not only what he has tried to make me_.

The other idea was like touching solid ground after swimming in the ocean for hours. He looked up at T.R. – at Turpin Rowle – with wide eyes and a new understanding.

"What?" Turpin saw all, or thought he did. "What are you looking like that for? If you want to leave, then—"

"You're just a sycophant," Linus broke in. "You think you're a spider, weaving around people, trapping them, but you're not. You're a weak little thing, pandering constantly to those above you. You're a toady to Umbridge, a toady to Scrimgeour, and I bet you're a toady to the Dark Lord. Voldemort," he added.

Turpin winced. "How dare you!"

"Voldemort," Linus said again. He could say anything in this moment of clarity. He was standing up straight, and had never realized before – he could see eye to eye with his once-teacher. "You're afraid of him. And you know what? You had better be. Your experiment with Benedicte is a failure. My sister escaped from you, my baby sister, by herself, might I add, and she's left St. Mungo's. She's going to be fine. You failed. You're a failed Death Eater, but you can't exactly leave, now, can you? God, I'd hate to be you."

"Your sister is a lunatic," Turpin spat.

"Well, I will fix her. I will find out what you did, and I will _undo_ it. And Amity Tweak – I'll find out what you did to her, and I'll undo that too. I'll learn whatever I have to. If you ever again hurt anyone I love, I will find out, and I will undo it. And you'll know dead certain that all you've ever done is so much – smoke and mirrors." Linus swayed, unsteady on his feet. He was tired, and craved coffee.

But he had strength yet. "And you know what else? I'll undo what you did to me and my memory. To Benedicte. My family will be whole again, and you'll be just a bad dream."

Turpin's face was even blotchier than ever – mostly chalk white, but the splotch across his nose and cheeks was nearly purple now.

"And incidentally – _Voldemort_." Linus added, then began to laugh. Mentally, he checked, _'Silly stage of sleep deprivation_. _Watch out_.'

"You shut your mouth!" Turpin snapped.

"Make me."

"You realize – that Muggle is going to go after your sister. That she's afraid of him. You know that, right?"

"And _you_ realize –" Linus swept out his hands, "that I'll never believe a word you say again. That you have no power over me anymore. You realize that, right?"

Turpin Rowle was speechless with shock

"Right. Now – and I'm only going to say this once – bugger off."

Linus turned around and walked outside. Whatever Turpin might mutter to him now, whatever he had said in the past, Linus was deaf to it. A sense of peace and calm fell on him. He could do anything. Things would take care of themselves. He couldn't remember when he had felt so free of anxiety before.

'_Well done, Linus_,' he thought to himself. '_Now, you will go home and help Calliope_.'

ooo

Later that day, Linus sat at a table a conference room, off the lobby of the American Embassy. Calliope was seated opposite him. It was silent; they were alone. Linus still felt confident and calm from earlier that day. "Well," he said, "I want to make sure you're ready. Do you have any concerns?"

"No."

"Are you frightened?"

"No."

"Good." On the table between them was Linus' briefcase, full of his Obliviator supplies but unopened. He reached over the case and squeezed his little sister's hand briefly. Then he let go and folded his hands again. "Now… I know you've been through a trauma. Things have happened that you can't understand, and a part of you likely doesn't want to understand. But this has happened to other people before; I've helped many others. It may be difficult to trust me. But you have to open up to me so that I can help you, so that you – so that we – can return to your normal life."

Calliope blinked. Linus was rather surprised at well, but hid it. He had just recited the little speech he traditionally gave to Muggles who had been entangled with magic, before Modifying their memories. But if it worked, well, it worked.

"I want you to cast your mind back. To Hollywyck. Back to when T.R. attacked. Start at the beginning. What happened?"

"You were gone." She murmured.

Linus frowned. "After that. Please, start after that."

"Well. You were gone. Then…" A quill recorded all she said, its brief scratches making her long pauses seem louder. She recounted the afternoon in a halting fashion. "Then… he cursed Mark, the Full Body-Bind. And he had disarmed me. I ran towards Mark… and then he yelled, 'Stupefy.' And that's it."

"What happened next?"

The quill scratched and fell silent. Calliope's eyes had become fixed on a patch of flowers on the carpet. Slowly she said, "I woke up in an office." At Linus' urging, she described the office. She described the little restroom and its mirror tinted a faint green. She lingered on the window, the one window to the outside.

"Were you alone most of the time?"

"All of the time, pretty much."

"But were you ever visited?"

"Yes." Calliope felt her voice growing tense.

"Who visited you?"

"Turpentine, Linus, _who else_? Oh, and the house-elf."

"Forget the house-elf, and I'm asking to be sure. No one other than Turpentine?"

"No."

"And Turpentine is…?"

She stared at him until she realized he was asking a question. "Oh. He's the Death Eater who had me imprisoned. I think it was his house."

"Why do you call him Turpentine? His name is Turpin Rowle."

"Because? I don't know, that's just what I thought to call him."

"Okay. Where did you get that idea? Did you know his real name?"

"… No…"

Linus made a note. "In his visits to you, what did he do? What did he say?"

She was silent.

"Calliope, you need to tell me."

"Why should I?"

"Well, testimony, for one thing. Moreover, how will _I_ help you if you don't open up to me? If you don't admit it even to yourself?"

Calliope crossed her arms.

After a pause, Linus demanded, "Don't you want to get better?"

"Yes, I do," she said, through clenched teeth, "But I can't talk about this. It hurts me even to remember. My head hurts and the days are all spotty."

"Well, you're going to have to work through that!"

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I didn't ask you to help me. I don't _want_ you to be playing psychologist. I want you to be my brother."

He dropped his eyes. Sullenly, he said, "I'm helping you the only way I know how."

She stared at him, silent, until…

"An Obliviator is what you need right now," Linus said, suddenly and more loudly than he intended, "now, you will get over yourself, you will tell me what happened, as soon as you make up your mind to!" He took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's start again."

ooo

There was a ring from the bell near the door. Andrew went up to it and tugged on the bell-pull.

"Call from the front desk," chimed the bell in a pert voice. "Visitor for Miss Ollivander."

"Who?" Andrew asked.

"Miss Tisiphone Gibbs."

"Tess!" Hector exclaimed. He knocked on the door of Linus room. "Tess is coming up!"

"So I suppose I can call her to visit, then?" Andrew asked drily.

"Yes, please," Hector answered, sheepish, while Linus opened the door. He and Calliope had returned from the lobby about an hour ago and he was going over notes. Irritably, he asked, "Does the word concentration mean nothing to you?"

Over the edge of the newspaper she was trying to read on the couch, Calliope looked up. "What? Tess is coming?"

"It seems so," Andrew said, having returned from the bell-pull.

"And what does she want to see us for?"

"You can ask her."

"Bother," Calliope grumbled, and sank deeper behind her pages, as if to delay Tess Gibbs until the last possible moment.

Mark, trying to make sense of the wizarding funny pages, asked, "Have I met Tess?"

"No…" Hector replied. "I think I'll go meet her at the stairwell."

Soon he returned. "We're here!" Tess stepped in. She was tall, with very long chestnut hair and the same striking grey eyes as the rest of her family. She looked, to Mark and Andrew, like a strange combination of Hector and Calliope.

"Hey," she said. Hector introduced them quickly, then said, "So sit down! What did you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to make sure you're okay," she said, but she still looked around. "Hi Linus – _there_ you are," she said, spotting Calliope.

"Hello," was Calliope's answer. She listened from the couch, but didn't join in when Tess sat at the little table with Hector. He described what life had been like since they'd moved in. After a few minutes she seemed satisfied.

"Good. Good."

"Now – you care to stay long? Can I get you some tea?"

"Hector, relax." Tess stood up and walked over to the couch. Towering over Calliope, she asked, "Care to take a walk?"

"It's rather late for a walk, isn't it?" Linus asked.

Calliope glanced back at her book, then up at Tess. "Would we have to make conversation?"

"God, no."

"Let me get my cloak and shoes."

Linus protested, "But you haven't had dinner yet."

"So I'll have dinner when I get back."

"Okay. We'll wait for you," he added.

"What – you're not staying?" Hector asked as Calliope walked past him. "You wanted to know if I was okay."

Tess turned to him and asked, earnestly, "Hector. How are you feeling, really?"

"Um…" he paused, glanced at Andrew, then glanced back. "Pretty good, actually."

"There. Problem solved."

"Tess!"

"Come on. You're a big boy."

"But you _are_ worried about me, right?"

"Yes, I am. But I know you and I are on good terms and going to stay that way. Calliope here and I…" as Calliope entered, pulling her cloak on her shoulders, "have unfinished business. We'll be back in about –"

"Are you sure you'll be safe out there?" Linus interjected.

While Calliope gave an irritated sigh, Tess fixed her cousin with a glare. "You know what I do for a living, right? We'll be fine. We won't be out too long. See you."

"Bye," Calliope added as the door closed.

Silence, thorough and complete. Then…

"That was… weird," Hector said.

"Are you sure that was your sister, or did we all just hallucinate…" Andrew started, before Linus jumped in, "Did you ask her security questions? She could be an imposter!"

"Yes, I asked her security questions, I'm not a dummy," Hector bristled.

"Wait," Mark interrupted all of them. "What _does_ she do for a living?"

ooo

Outside!

It felt like years since Calliope had last been outside. The fresh air, the cold snap of autumn all around, and the ability to be anonymous – to pass people and not be an object of speculation or fussing – was exhilarating.

The only problem was Tess. Calliope couldn't think of anything to say, and felt obligated to talk, so at length she ventured, "Very cold for this time of year, isn't it?"

"It's been rather cool all year," Tess replied. "Not that you would know, on account of being in Boston and all."

"No, I wouldn't know…" She was starting to regret having brought up any conversation.

"It's because of the Dementor surge."

Calliope shuddered. "Surge… you make them sound like an army."

"They _are_ an army, cousin, and only now are most people realizing this." Tess spoke with authority – she was, after all, an expert on magical creatures and beings. When Calliope sighed, Tess snapped at her. "Buck up! You've got to face facts!"

"I do face facts! Dementors attacked Hollywyck, did you know that? I am fine at facing facts." She added under her breath, "And at alliteration," smiling in spite of herself.

Tess looked at her, baffled. "And at _what_?"

"Nevermind." Suddenly Calliope had the idea that Tess did not want her to talk. It was a relaxing thought.

So they wound down the street, past many Embassies, and on a street corner Calliope stopped to listen to a string quartet. They struggled to balance their delicate instruments against the weather, and Calliope whispered a spell into the air to preserve the wood and wire. Then they went on.

Tess helped her cousin to Apparate to the Kensington Gardens. They walked on and Calliope heaved a sigh of relief: to be outside, to not have to think about anything in specific. She didn't even have to decide where she was going, for Tess chose their paths. But after an hour or so, she felt she had to say something. Tess had always antagonized her. Why the change of heart now? So Calliope, stopping, leaned against a balcony overlooking the little river and asked, "Tess, why did you want to talk to me?"

Tess kept walking for a few more steps, then turned around. "Oh, I felt a bit sorry for you. Cooped up all day with four men, considering after your – whatever happened to you. I know I always feel better for some fresh air, myself."

The other woman nodded. "I _do_ feel better," she admitted.

"And I haven't seen you since you got back from Boston." She waited for her cousin to reply, but when Calliope stayed silent, she went on, "And I knew you wouldn't talk to me if you could help it, so I'd have to take the first move."

Calliope thought of a few curt, clever, or cutting replies, and dismissed them all. But Tess added, sharply, "You're better than you know at keeping grudges, Calliope."

She sat up, surprised. "Well, I'm at least as good as you."

"Oh, I know. But listen to me. I'm trying to restart over here. You remember the last time we talked?"

"Vividly."

"Look, don't get smart, alright? I was in the middle of a breakdown. Really. Seriously. I was in a really bad place."

"I believe you. Go on."

"That's why I was so… yeah. You know what I was like. But after that—I was wandering and I found someone." Her face softened and she turned away, towards the water. "A minister. Januarius Fell."

"You found religion?" Calliope asked in some disbelief.

"No. I found Jan. He's so unlike me. I felt like I was lacking something, needed balance, and he provided it. And… um… yes." Her voice turned sharp again. She appeared to feel that she'd said too much. "I've been attending his services regularly since then. If you'd like, I'll take you to a service sometime. It might help you."

"That's… very thoughtful of you, Tess. I'll, er, keep it in mind."

Tess was silent for a moment, then said, "Jan has some ideas that I think you should pay attention to. Especially as regards Muggles." She gave Calliope a significant look.

Calliope bristled. "Excuse me?"

"You heard perfectly well what I said."

"Since when is it your business with whom I associate?"

"It becomes my business the instant that you reflect badly on our family – which has begun."

"What, public opinion? I don't care, much, and I thought you didn't, either."

"This is a legitimate cause for concern! You know what a threat Muggles pose to us?"

Calliope thought. "They can't do magic, don't know we exist, and are better at maths?"

"I'm being serious, here!"

"So am I."

"It's a cultural threat. You only have to look at their billboards – the side of their omnibuses and things – they're wanton, have absolutely no morals. They're slow, slovenly…"

"How many Muggles do you actually _know_, Tess?"

"Look, I know you like to shut yourself off from emotion and stuff like that –"

"_Excuse_ me?"

"But you've got to get how important this is. Listen, cous, I'm telling you this for your own good. I want you to make the right choices. Be on the right track for life."

Calliope remembered why she didn't particularly enjoy Tess' company. But Tess sounded sincere, and so Calliope tried to stay calm as she said, "Can't you let me make my own choices? The Muggles I have met are no more inherently wicked or stupid than wizards –"

"Oh, yeah? Then would you _marry_ one?"

The question took Calliope by surprise: at once in her mind flashed a face very like Mark's…

_Do you know why they always said to stay away from Muggles?_

She shook her head, feeling sick. "No."

"There you go." Mollified, Tess stood back and lowered her voice. "I didn't mean to make this into a debate. Let's just stop it here. I'm sorry that I yelled, really I am. I do want us to get along better now, cousin."

"I appreciate that. Thank you." Calliope nodded.

"Let's start heading back." Tess shifted from one foot to the other. "Call it a night."

"Yes. Let's."

They walked on in silence. When the embassies of France and Saudi Arabia came into sight, Tess said, "Well, I'm glad that you could get outside anyway. Thanks for coming along."

"Thank you for inviting me."

"So, everything's fine with the boys?"

Calliope blinked. "The boys?"

"What you suggest calling them?"

"'The boys' will do. I rather like that. We're getting on all right."

"Cool." Tess paused. Then, "Have they told you about the blackmail?"

"What blackmail?"

ooo

Tess thought, as she left the American Embassy, leaving her cousins and her brother once more in the care of a foreign power, that Calliope had taken the word about the blackmail very well. "Stoic" was the word Tess would use. Nice and stoic.

Meanwhile, inside the Embassy, Calliope had sat on the couch, facing the fireplace, for a very long time. Linus and Mark had both asked her repeatedly, "Is everything all right?" and Hector and Andrew had each asked her once. She always just shook her head and gave short answers. Then, suddenly, she stood up and began searching the mantel.

"What are you looking for?" Mark asked, looking up from a '_Guide to American Magical History_,' borrowed from the Embassy library.

"The Floo Powder," she answered.

He blinked. "The _what_?"

"Floo Powder," Andrew explained, sitting in an armchair near the lamp, "used to communicate and travel through fireplaces. I think you have to pay to use it, Calliope."

"Really?"

"And probably get clearance."

"Get clearance. _Of course_," she repeated, standing back from the fireplace.

"Who do you want to talk to?" Andrew asked.

"Dora."

"Why?" Mark asked.

Calliope didn't look at him, but folded her arms instead. "I want to ask her if something Tess told me is true."

"Heck, I can do that," Hector said easily. "What is it?"

"I would like Linus in here, too," Calliope had begun to pace steadily back in forth in front of the fireplace.

Mark frowned, "I know I've asked about five times, but what's wrong?"

"I'm just – there you are." Linus had entered, asking at once "What do you want to know?"

Calliope looked at him. Then at Hector. Then, for a long moment, at Mark. She slowly began, "Tess told me something. I didn't believe it at first. I still don't believe it entirely. But I wanted to ask Dora. Instead I guess I'll have to ask you…" she trailed off.

"You can ask me anything," Mark assured her.

But Hector was suddenly alarmed. He looked to Andrew and Linus, who only looked back in mild confusion. What was there to be frightened about?

"Tess said that Hector told her that you three … were being… not bribed, what's the word… blackmailed." She looked at them and saw three of their faces blanch. "Blackmail from Turpentine. The Death Eater," she added. "According to Tess, he was blackmailing Mark and Linus but – not Hector. She was specific about that. The deal was, if you pled 'Guilty,' he'd set me free. If you pled 'Not Guilty,' I would stay imprisoned. Then she added that the three of you pled 'Not Guilty.'"

She paused to ask, Is this true, but she heaved a sigh instead, feeling very weary. "Tell me this isn't true."

There was a long pause. Calliope looked at Hector, who looked down.

She looked at Linus, who was trying to gather his thoughts.

She looked at Mark, who cast his eyes down and said quickly, "I'm sorry."

"You mean it's true? You all actually threw away your chance to save me?"

"He said he would set you free 'when he was done with you,'" Linus corrected, "Isn't that right, Mark?"

"Yes. That's right."

"That could have meant anything," Linus finished.

"That would have meant my _freedom_." There was another silence. Calliope's whole body was tensed with anger. Then, in a cracking voice, she asked, "Didn't any of you think to accept it? Even for a moment?"

(Mark felt guilt knotting his heart, his arms, his entire being. His brief protests to plead 'Not Guilty' had been short-lived, inadmissible. Self-hatred began to knot the guilt even tighter.)

"Calliope," Linus said in his best soothing voice, "It was just a Death Eater."

"What, I didn't _know_ that?" Now she rounded on him. Somehow her hair had come out of its braid. It hovered in their air as though there was static electricity.

Behind her Mark said, "If we were in prison, we couldn't stand a chance of helping you ever –" at the same time that Linus said, "He had broken his word to me before – shut up, Mark – his promise was meaningless!"

"I didn't think so," she whispered. Stepping back from them, pressing her fists to her chest. "He made a promise to me, and I believed him. He said that he could clear up this 'misunderstanding' – set you free – if I cooperated. So I did."

"Oh god…" Mark breathed, eyes wide in horror.

"Every single night, I let him go into my head and steal away my memories. After a while I _forgot _why I was doing it. I thought I was broken." She choked down a sob. "Then I remembered. _I did it for you_." She shook her head, staring at Linus, "And this is how –" she couldn't finish.

And her brother had no words for her.

Mark stepped towards her. "Calliope, I'm sorry –" he reached out and took her arm gently –

"_Don't touch me!_" she snapped, striking his hand away with hers.

He fell back with a cry of pain. "My hand!" Andrew, who was nearest, sprang to help: the Muggle's hand was red, as though burned, all over his palm. Calliope saw, and her face, full of color, went white.

"Calliope, please, calm down," Linus urged, and his voice had a note of fear in it, "You haven't done any magic all day – for several days – if you don't control yourself you'll –"

"Don't you dare tell me what to do or think for even one more minute!" she screamed at him. In a lower tone, "I didn't ask you to investigate me and I will not control myself for a _traitor_." She turned from him like a wild horse breaking from its ropes, and was about to run from the mall, but –

"Calliope – please –" It was Mark, reaching to her with his uninjured hand.

For one moment their eyes locked, then Calliope turned away, ran to her room, and slammed the door.

* * *

><p>End Note: I feel obliged to add a "dun dun DUUUN!"<p>

Teaser: Next chapter, "Amsterdam," features alcohol, a musical interlude, and an unexpected kiss.


	10. Amsterdam

Amsterdam

"In The Port of Amsterdam" lyrics by Jacques Brel, translated from the French by Mort Shuman. The other song is "If You Won't See Me" by the Beatles.

Note: This chapter features the consumption of alcohol and inebriation (thank you to a friend of mine for helping plot out the sequence) and a smidgen of content at the end that... may make some readers uncomfortable. Giving you warning now - as always, I welcome readers' comments.

A special note: the line of beer mentioned in this chapter is the "Dragon's Breath Beer" invented by Violet Azure for her story "High Spirits, a Hogsmeade Tale," which can be found easily online at the Sugar Quill. An excellent fic that I think stands quite well in the light of newer canon. And I, personally, would try Dragon's Breath Beer in a heartbeat.

* * *

><p>Calliope slammed the door shut, so hard the lamps on the wall shook a little. She too shook, controlling herself as she always, always did – using magic could hurt someone, using words would hurt someone, but if she didn't do <em>anything<em> she would – so she screamed, briefly.

The scream was raw in her throat, as raw as her anger. She strode up and down the narrow space of her room, clenching her hands together and bringing them away again to create a shock of lightning, sheer magic.

Then she clapped her hands loudly, dispelling the magic. It was already growing out of her control.

She sat at the small desk before the window. Her papers were there – a little note from Fleur, and the letter from Luna that she'd received in the hospital.

Luna's letter. Waiting for an answer.

Calliope even saw the parchment, quill, and inkwell that she'd set out earlier that day, getting ready to write the response. That happy intention seemed to have belonged to another person altogether.

But maybe – maybe writing, and honoring that intention, that happier person – would calm her down. So she tried. She took out Luna's first letter, and managed to scratch out,

"Dear Luna, thank you for your concern."

But the more she stared at the letter with its wandering letters and little doodles in the margins, the angrier and angrier she got. Anger boiled up at _stupid_ Luna and her _stupid_ Hogwarts life where she was sheltered and safe and never had to worry about anything other than imaginary Wrackspurts, where she could trust everyone around her. Calliope could not think of a single reason why she'd liked Luna in the first place.

In a fit of pique she took the quill and scribbled furiously,:

"Actually, I'm feeling perfectly bloody savage tonight. I have been bitterly disappointed by the three people closest to me. They betrayed me and see no reason why I shouldn't take their point-of-view. I wish they all would rot in hell, so excuse me for not writing a frothier reply to your airy-fairy little note."

With relish she signed, sealed, and mailed it, Summoning an Embassy owl with a bell on the wall. Then she slammed the window shut with a satisfying violence.

She sat on the bed, but soon felt uneasy. She had no right to take her anger out on an acquaintance like that – someone with no say at all in the original debacle. She should apologize.

She took out another piece of parchment and smoothed it out. She took up the quill and stared at the parchment.

She was a good person. That's why she was apologizing to a girl she'd written an angry letter to. When she had every right to be angry. When the people she'd trusted had thrown her aside to save themselves.

They were waiting outside the door. They were in her future. Inescapable. She would have to face them sooner or later.

She sank her head onto the desk, and wished silently to be anything, anyone other than herself.

She must have fallen asleep, because she woke up later, thirsty. There was ink all over her hands, and – urgh, her face too. Then she blinked, her eyes focusing. Before her was a sheet of parchment covered in drawings – of trees, roads, rivers, of cats, snakes, and of hands. Angry little hands, all pointing in judgment.

ooo

"_In the port of Amsterdam, there's a sailor who sings_…_ of the dreams that he brings, from the wide open sea_…"

A bandaged hand rested on the table in the First Aid room of the Embassy, wrapped in soft papery gauze. It was healing, but stinging.

"_In the port of Amsterdam, there's a sailor who dies, Full of beer, full of cries… in a drunken down fight_…"

His other hand was supporting his head, light brown hair hanging about his face, obscuring his eyes. He sang in a low, uneven voice, without quite realizing it.

"… _And in the port of Amsterdam, there's a sailor who is born. On a muggy hot morn… by the dawn's early light…_"

The three wizards were outside the infirmary, talking in low voices together. Obviously they were discussing something important. Mark slid off the bench and got to his feet. He felt well enough except for his hand, and a leaden weight in his stomach. Leaving the infirmary, feeling the bright lights pass on his face and body without his really noticing them, he wished, more than anything, that he could be in Massachusetts, at home, surrounded by Muggles, safe forever and ever.

If he only had magic…

'_But then_,' he thought bitterly, '_It wouldn't matter if I were a wizard, if I were the most powerful wizard in the world, I abandoned Calliope when I swore I wouldn't…_'

He leaned against a wall, still half-muttering, half-chanting, "_In the port of Amsterdam, where the sailors all meet, there's a sailor who eats only fish heads and tails, and he'll show you his teeth, that have rotted too soon, that can swallow the moon, that can haul up the sails_…"

"Pardon me," said a voice as two people, nicely dressed, wearing scent, walked past him. That brought him back to the world, and he realized he was standing in front of the Embassy bar, right off of the lobby. Soft lights. Soft music. He stepped inside, almost stumbling over a little low step. The bar was made of smooth, dark wood, and Mark leaned his elbows against it as he found a seat. Vaguely, he heard conversation around him, all sounding posh and formal. He took a Wine & Beer List and studied it. Ogden's Old Firewhiskey sounded dangerous, and there was a line of something called Dragon's Breath Beer, and several varieties of California wine…

"What can I get for you?" asked the bartender.

"Whatever you got that's strong."

The bartender raised his eyebrows. He was a large, steady man, and weighed Mark's demeanor and countenance with an experienced eye. "Just, strong?"

"Yes, strong, all right? Not too bitter."

"Payment?"

"Um…" Mark thought quickly. "It's going on my tab?"

"What's your room number?"

Mark gave it. "Now just get me something to drink."

ooo

Linus had gone upstairs. That left Andrew and Hector together in the infirmary. Left them with a silence, which Hector quickly dispelled by saying, "I'm sorry…"

"What for?" Andrew asked.

"I'm sorry for Tess. I'm the one who told her about the blackmail. She and Calliope have never gotten along, so it's because of me that…"

"Calliope would have found out sooner or later. She'd have had to."

Somehow they got off topic. They usually did, whenever Hector happened to talk to him. They got off topic very quickly this time. They even managed to forget the Embassy around them, the infirmary, the increasing lateness of the hour, and the fact that they were both hungry. Instead, Hector wanted to see how many ways he could make Andrew laugh. He wasn't used to being able to make people laugh.

But in the middle of a hearty chortle, Andrew stopped. Looked around.

"God damn it."

"What?"

"We lost Mark."

"Oh. That."

"Let's look for him."

Hector suppressed the urge to ask, "_Do we have to?" _He liked the conversation they'd been having, he liked the chance to have Andrew's complete and undivided attention. He liked having Andrew to himself.

But Andrew was a reliable friend: he was trying to make up all those years of secrecy to Mark, it seemed. '_And it's good that he's such a reliable friend. That's really good. I like that about him – oh, get a grip, Gibbs!_' Hector thought.

"So which way would he have gone?" Andrew asked out loud, looking down both sides of the corridor.

"Towards the stairwell?" Hector suggested vaguely.

It wasn't even practical. After having spent a week in close quarters with Linus and Mark, the last thing Hector could want should be any company whatsoever. But Andrew was…

"Wait. There's a bar?" Andrew asked.

"Of course there's a bar. And a library and a First Aid section."

"Why does an Embassy even have these things?"

"Um, crazy Americans?"

They found Mark in the bar. He was hunched over, but not (as Hector half-expected) pouring out his troubles to the barkeeper. He was leaning strongly to one side, near where a couple was talking (and clearly, flirting).

"Hey, Mark," Andrew said as they approached.

"Sssh – I'm eavesdropping," Mark said, entirely too loudly.

The couple next to him at the bar fell silent, glared at him, then got up and walked away.

Andrew counted the glasses in front of Mark, balked, and asked the bartender, "Has he really had that much?"

"Yes," the man said.

"Of what, exactly?"

"Very tasty stuff," Mark assured him.

The bartender phlegmatically replied, "Opaleye Ale, Short-Snout Stout…"

"Please tell me those names are jokes," Andrew asked, in faint disbelief.

"… and then Ogden's Firewhiskey, just for kicks."

"Oh, that's strong…" Hector muttered.

"Tell me about it!" Mark added. He tried to lean back and fell over onto the floor.

"And _you've_ had enough for tonight," the bartender said,

Andrew paled. "Um, Mark? I think we should go back up to the room now."

Mark glared up at him, his eyes very bright against his florid face. "What?"

"I'm telling you. We're going back up to the room."

"I'm _not_."

"You're going to…"

"I'm _not_." Mark struggled to his feet, resisting Hector's attempts to help him. "I am not going to go back there."

"Don't be –" Andrew took a deep breath. "Mark, you're drunk, and you should listen to me."

"I'm drunk? Great!"

"No, it's not great."

"Seems pretty good to me. I can forget for at least a while that I can't shoot fireballs out of my hands or ride a broomstick or whatever." He picked up one of the empty glasses. "Can't I have one more of the sparkly stuff?"

"Get a grip, Mark!"

"Shut up, Andrew."

"You think I want you to sit here and just – just _drown _in alcohol?"

"_Why shouldn't I?_" Mark yelled. "It's all I'll ever be good for!"

People were starting to look over at him. The bartender cleared his throat. "Last call for drinks, everybody! Last call! Sir, I don't want to have to call security…"

"Mark, please, come with me, you don't want to get in trouble with the Embassy, too…"

"Let them," Mark tried to take a confident pose, and toppled over onto Hector. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "I get into trouble with everyone… I've gotten into trouble with you, with the Ministry, with Linus, I've _always_ been in trouble with Linus – now I'm in trouble with Calliope. She'll never speak to me again."

"Now, that's not true, come on, come this way," Hector tried to urge him along.

"It _is_ true," Mark resisted Hector again.

Andrew clenched one fist, and then reached into his pocket. "Okay. I'm sorry, Mark. I'm really, really sorry. But you'll understand when you're sober." He pulled out his wand. "_Locomotor Kibets_."

With a jerk, Mark stood up straight all of a sudden. Andrew twitched his wand, and Mark's legs began to goose-step away from the bar of their own accord. Mark said nothing, but glared mutinously at Andrew.

"Sorry," Hector said to the barkeeper, and to the other patrons. "Really sorry." The barkeeper shrugged.

He caught up with Andrew, who muttered to him, "You have no idea how awkward this is. Usually _he's_ the one steering me home when I'm smashed…"

When he and Hector had marched Mark to the stairwell, Andrew said, "Okay. I can break the spell now, if you think you can go up to our room by your own volition."

"I hate you," Mark muttered. Andrew winced. "I can walk fine, and I am not going back to the room!"

"You can and you will."

"Easy for you to say!"

Hector put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Look, it's not as bad as you're making it, I'm sure…"

Mark made an extremely rude suggestion to Hector. "I'm a dirty, stupid Muggle and I can never, ever rise to anything better, and I've broken my word to Calliope, I'll never leave this rutting country, ever, or go home, and I was stupid to think I could ever – ever – I'm a _Muggle_, for god's sake!"

Andrew let the spell break, and Mark toppled over, his legs suddenly free. He sat on a step. Andrew scolded, "That's not true, that's not true at all!"

"That's right," Hector added. "Calliope doesn't think any the less of you for being a Muggle, I promise."

"Right," Mark smiled widely through clenched teeth. "Not because I'm a Muggle. Because I'm… y'know… Dutch."

He paused. "This would be a great time for an accordion to strike up. And we all know what they say about the Dutch." He began to sing with anger and gusto, "_In the port of Amsterdam_, _there's a sailor who drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks once again! He drinks to the health to the whores of Amsterdam—_"

"Mark, shut up!" Andrew said.

"_Who have given their love—_"

"Calliope will hear you!" added Hector.

Mark shut up. "What? She won't. She can't hear me down here. Can she?"

"Yes, she can," Andrew said, nodding. "That's why you have to be _quiet_."

"I don't have to be quiet!"

"Yes, you do," taking Mark's arm, Hector tried to pull him up. "Let's _go_…"

"I don't have to listen to you wizards!" He fell back but retained his footing this time. "And for god's sake, you are the most obvious person on the face of the planet, you can just _ask_ him!" Mark gestured broadly.

Hector blinked. "Ask… who?"

"Andrew's bi! He's bisexual! He goes both ways! he came out in college! To me! If you're gay, that's just fine by him! He likes men and women! Believe it or not, we _have _bisexuals as Muggles. _One_ thing we got that you ain't got. You can just ask him and stop following him around like a lost sad puppy because there's only room here for one lovesick martyr and that's me, goddamnit, I got here first!"

There was a very, very long silence. Hector let Mark fall back onto the stairs. He didn't dare to look at Andrew or at Mark or at anything except, maybe, the wallpaper. Finally, Mark, lolling on the stairwell, began to sing again, "_We have lost the time, that was so hard to find… and I may lose my mind – if you won't see me_."

"Mark, you're drunk, you _can't_ sing, and you're coming with me _right now_." Andrew found his volition again, and foregoing his wand he picked up Mark by the arm and dragged him upright, tugging him along despite Mark's protests. "Hector!" he said.

"What?" Hector blinked.

"Take his other arm, will you?"

Hector complied, and together they got Mark to the door of their suite, with Mark still singing, his pitch varying haphazardly, "_Time after time you refuse to even listen. I wouldn't mind if I knew what I was missing!_" The other two men set him free once he was safely inside the suite.

"Mark, be quiet," Andrew whispered. He closed the door quickly behind Hector, then, leaning close, asked, "What are we going to do with him?"

Hector tried to consider the situation objectively, not factoring in the sudden proximity of Andrew's face and hair. "Um," he said. "He's going to have one hell of a hangover."

Mark fell over a chair. "I'm _okay!_"

"Very true. What else?"

Hector glanced at Linus' door, muttering, "Linus is probably asleep by now… wait! We can use that."

"What?"

"Linus' sleeping potion. It'll knock Mark out like a light."

Andrew frowned. "He's had several magical beers already. What if it mixes badly with what he's already taken?"

"What about the Somnolus Charm?"

"I… don't know that one."

"I can teach you."

"But what if he…"

"Look, it's either that, or we just _wait_ until he falls asleep." Both of them looked at Mark. He was trying to straighten out the chair that he'd toppled over. It wasn't working.

Andrew looked back at Hector. "Is it a sedative, or…"

"It'll put him to sleep, but it won't _keep_ him asleep necessarily. But at this point, that shouldn't matter."

"Fine."

A few minutes later, "Mark," Andrew said, "How about you sit on the couch for a minute?"

"I don't have to do anything," Mark said stubbornly.

"No, Mark, please. For me. Just onto the couch."

"Meh. Fine." He straightened up, only to fall onto the couch cushions. "Happy?" he said, his voice muffled.

"Yes. Okay, three, two… _Somnolus_," Andrew said at the same time as Hector. Mark didn't even have time to look surprised before he fell fast asleep. Hector heard Andrew let out a sigh of relief, then, "Let's move him into Linus' room," abruptly.

"_What_?" Hector just managed to contain his cry of surprise into a choked whisper. "But that's my bed!"

"So you and Mark can trade beds for the night."

"Um… um… um… why?"

"Well, they're both under sedatives right now. So to speak. They should stick together. Like a sick bay. Besides, they'll be less likely to wake each other up."

"I… That… Logic…"

"Come on. Count of three."

Somehow, Andrew's logic won out. After they had levitated Mark into Hector's bed, and tucked him in, and tiptoed out, Hector had to ask, "Be honest."

"What?"

"Are you doing this just for the comedy of what'll happen when they both wake up? Because they've been roommates before. It's not exactly a pretty sight." He narrowed his eyes. "Or is this to punish Mark for getting so completely… hammered, I believe is the phrase?"

Andrew looked rather sheepish. "Honest?"

"Yes. Honest."

"Well… there's a bit of that. But I don't blame him for his stress levels. I'm disappointed, but I can't say I blame him… but, there's also the fact that I kind of want him out of the way. So we can talk."

"Oh."

"You know… in case it made things awkward."

"More awkward than it is right now?" Hector blurted without thinking. His stomach was tying itself in knots, and he was sure that Andrew would hear how loud his heart was beating…

Andrew burst out laughing. "It would be possible, maybe. Point is, it's your turn to be honest."

Time stopped for Hector. Andrew was looking at him very intently.

"What Mark said about me is true. _In vino veritas_, the little jerk. But what he said about you – is that true?"

Hector dropped his eyes. "What part?

"The part about you following me like a… what was it?"

"A lost, sad puppy," Hector mumbled. He wanted to die. To just melt. Please god.

"Is that true? Because I don't want to be operating under the wrong impression. I want us to start things out honestly."

"Because we all really messed up when we forgot to be honest, didn't we?"

"Yeah. Pretty much." A pause. "So….?"

"I… yes, _yes_, it's true what Mark said." Hector buried his face into his hands. "Oh, man, god damn it. I don't – I've never talked about this, this isn't how I'm supposed to be… I mean, I _like_ you, Andrew, a lot, a lot, but I—I seriously don't know—"

"Hector?" Dark, cool hands were taking his own, taking them away from his face. "Guess what." And Hector was looking up into Andrew's dark, wide eyes. Andrew was smiling.

Hector mouthed the word _what_, but couldn't put any more strength behind it.

Then Andrew kissed him, very gently, and very briefly.

"I like you, a lot, too. And—"

He didn't get to finish, because Hector suddenly found his strength, strength to return Andrew's kiss, and then some, to fold him into his arms, to lose all track of time because this was _so right_.

Eventually Andrew spoke up again, laughter in the edges of his voice – Hector could make him laugh! – "Mark is actually absolutely right. There's enough anxiety about love around here already. Oh, Hector, it's okay."

He'd leaned his blond head onto Andrew's shoulder, and was clinging to him.

"Do you want to talk about this?"

"God, it's been such a weird day," Hector muttered into Andrew's shoulder.

"Actually, it's a new day. Midnight. Fairy-time."

"Appropriate." A beat. "Oh, _god_, I'm sorry, that just came out…"

"Rather like you."

"Oh you _bastard!_"

Suddenly they were guffawing, leaning into each other, laughing so hard and loud they began to shush each other, until they fell onto the couch together, the only people awake in the whole Embassy.

"God," Hector said, wiping tears away. "We are one screwed up family in here."

"Yeah," Andrew agreed. "Totally."


	11. Violins and Prairie Oysters

Violins and Prairie Oysters

A/N: This week's Canon Guest Star is – Luna Lovegood, although sadly not in person. But a returning favorite nonetheless! Supporting Guest Star is Fleur Delacour!

Also, a certain gag was stolen from a certain episode of '_Friends_.' I honestly could not help myself. Let me say in my defense: fanfiction is ultimately derivative, so I think that, as long as I don't end up depending on gags and plot devices from other works, it's fine to use them to add a little color and flair to my own. I mean, I write this first and foremost for fun. So that said, enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p>At around four in the morning, Calliope woke up, gradually. She shook the dreams away, saw the strange drawings on the paper, and called softly, "Scurry?"<p>

With a crack, Scurry appeared. "Oh, Miss!" instead of her usual curtsy, Scurry's hands were clasped and her eyes were filled with tears. "Oh, Miss!"

"Scurry – sssh, I don't want them to hear—"

"Oh, of course!" Scurry replied, her squeaky voice no more than a whisper, "of course we will, Miss, we was so worried—" She took Calliope's hand, "Oh, Miss, we're so glad!"

"Yes, Scurry, I'm all right now." Calliope comforted the elf as best she could. "I'm pretty much fine…"

Scurry sat up and wiped away her tears smartly. "Now what shall we do for you, Miss?"

"A bit of toast, and eggs, and bring me my violin and cello."

"It shall be done, Miss!"

"And, my, um, my – what do you call those things… those things that help you play… sheet music! My sheet music, please."

"As you wish."

After Scurry was gone, Calliope was left alone with her thoughts once more – and only then did she realize just how early it was. But she didn't care. It seemed to her that when she thought of – the men – there was a cold space in her heart, a freeze she herself had put in place, lest their betrayal grow and spread into her like poison in water. And she couldn't leave this room. Without supervision, she couldn't even leave the Embassy. She wanted to run, fly her broomstick, or at least scream loud and long. But _that_ would have Linus in there for sure. So she resolved to do the next best thing.

Later, she had finished her toast, and dismissed Scurry (back home, or to Hogwarts, where she might be safer). She checked the sky outside – still black. "Hm."

Then she took out her violin, tuned it, and began to play. Loudly, and angrily. ('_Études,_' and '_Piégée Dans Un Mal Romance_.')

As the notes in the air snaked up and down, twisted and growled, she threw herself more and more into the playing. Her arms ached. Even her ears rang. But the music could be her anger, wordless but known to her and everyone.

Then someone knocked at the door.

ooo

Linus was sedated, and did not wake up, but the music entered into his dreams and made them riotous.

Andrew and Hector woke up, realized what was going on, and then Andrew groggily took up his wand, muttering a Muffling Spell into his pillow. Then, the noise deadened, they both fell back into sleep.

Mark, however, woke up, not being sedated, and was unable to go back to sleep, not being a wizard. In fact –

—was he _hung over_?

That was not good.

Especially in view of the insane and loud violin music that was streaming through the air. He tried covering his ears, but it did not go away. It woke him up fully against his will – and then he remembered last night, and the shouting, and the pain on his hand, and the only person who would be playing a violin at this hour.

Calliope.

This time, however, any guilt he may have felt was excised by the scalpel-like incisions that the music made on his brain – or so it felt like.

So he worked his way out the bed, the covers putting up rather more of a fight than they usually did. But then he hit his head on the wall. "_Ow!_" It did not improve his mood or his headache. And since when had there been a wall there?

"Andrew?" he turned around to ask, and then realized he was in the wrong bed entirely. He reached for a lamp, but then realized that light was probably the last thing he needed at the moment. So he gathered himself together, at least enough to stand, and slowly walked to the door. He opened it, and a small hallway light fell in.

Curious, Mark turned around and jumped. '_How did Linus get into Andrew's bed_?' Then he looked out into the hallway. '_Actually… how did I get into Hector's bed_?'

He closed the door. '_Hector and Andrew must have put me to bed… that's nice of them… but then why not put me in my own… wait, what exactly did I say_?' "Oh good God, please don't let me have said _that_," he prayed.

The violin music reached a crescendo. Mark stormed towards Calliope's door. He banged his fist against it. "Calliope! If you're not going to talk to anyone, _fine_, but at least let us sleep in peace, will you?"

There was a silence, then the music started again. He thought he recognized a peculiarly vengeful rendition of 'The Carol of the Bells.'

"If we're both awake, will you at least talk to me?" he pleaded. As the music went on, his anger returned, and he added, "And it's _not Christmas_, you moron! You can't play Christmas music!"

The violin screeched to a halt. The door opened, but only enough to show Calliope's face, very white except for her red-rimmed eyes. "_Do not_ call me a moron, and furthermore, _don't_ try to tell me what I can and can't play."

"It's the rule," Mark rebutted triumphantly. "You can't play Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving."

"It's a stupid American rule, and there is no Thanksgiving in England, so you can –" she started to pull the door shut –

"Calliope, please, I have to talk to you, don't close the door again!" He shoved himself into the doorframe. The door collided painfully with his shoulder. "Ow!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She opened the door, and he leaned slightly forward. She steadied him. "Mark, I don't want –" they were very close. She stood absolutely still. "—to hurt you. Again."

He stood back, leaning a bit on the doorframe. '_Please don't let her smell that I've been drinking_.' "Then listen to me."

She looked at the bandage on his hand, and said nothing. But her red-rimmed eyes looked up at him once, and he took that as a cue.

"I'm sorry. I'm so deeply sorry. I – when you were first kidnapped, I made a promise to Linus. I promised him I would never, ever, abandon you when you were in danger." Even as he said them, the words fell, weakly, but he forced himself to look at her. To own up to what he'd done. "I—"

"Why didn't you keep that promise?" she asked harshly.

Mark dropped his eyes, his shoulders slumped. "I—"

"_Why didn't you keep that promise_?" she demanded again. "Why? Am I just that worthless?"

"No! It's because I'm a _coward_!" Mark cried. "You're not worthless," he added, his voice shaking. "But I am. I broke my word because I'm a coward."

He looked up at her again. She brought her violin up to her chest and cradled it. She whispered, so softly he might not have heard it, "You're not worthless, either." Her eyes weren't as cold as before.

"I was a coward. I am. I used to look at the world, your world, this magical world, with so much joy. But it's been replaced by fear. And I let fear make my decision, and let it get in the way of what should have been – what _is_ – the most important thing in my life. I need you—" he started, then he shook his head quickly. "I made that promise to Linus, but I was really making it to you. Which is why I'm begging you to forgive me – to give me a second chance. I know forgiveness is a lot to ask, but—"

"Yes, it _is_. Why me?"

"Because I was promising you, _in absentia,_" he repeated, letting annoyance overtake guilt, which was a little easier. "Because I've betrayed you, and hurt you. If you give me another chance… it's the only way I can regain…" he hesitated.

"Regain what?"

On an impulse, he took her hand with both of his. "I've lost everything. I've lost my freedom, my money, contact with everyone else I know – probably lost my job by now – I've even lost my good name. But to lose you – and to lose my personal honor – that's more than I can stand. Please, give me a chance to make it up to you, to restore my honor. Please." He knelt. His heart was in his mouth. He resisted the urge to kiss her hand only because he didn't want to seem totally ridiculous.

"Oh, get up," she said automatically, but he didn't move. And she didn't either, except to look at his bandaged fingers, her mouth tight. Finally she said something, so low she could barely hear herself.

"What? Sorry…"

"It seems to me like, every time we touch, one of us gets hurt."

"I don't believe that."

"Just get up. Please."

He got up, tugged by her hand.

She sighed. "I'm sorry for all that you've lost, Mark. More than I can say. But I can't – don't ask me for forgiveness. Not now. Maybe it's not too much to ask, but I can't do it. And don't look at me like that," she chided, with a bitter note. "I'm not your fair damsel or whatever. I never have been."

He didn't let go of her hand, but held it tighter. "Not now. You mean, with time, maybe?"

"Maybe. Now," she took her hand away from his, "Go back to sleep. I mean it. I want to be left alone. I won't play any more music, either. It was immature of me to do so." Mark mumbled something. "What?"

"I said, you can play Christmas carols if you want. I shouldn't have called you a moron. I'm sorry."

Calliope regarded him, without saying a word, before stepping back and closing the door softly.

Mark stared at the wood for a moment. Then he stepped back – and back – until he knocked his head against the wall opposite. "_Son of a –_" he whispered, his teeth clenched. Then he sank down the wall, onto the floor.

ooo

Linus woke up to a nightmare, and to bleary light outside: today would be stormy. What day was it, anyway? Oh, yes: the fifteenth of September. The bed next to him was empty. "Weird," he muttered, his eyelids heavy. He hated the feeling of waking up like he'd not had enough sleep. But soon he felt calm again. He was going to do good work. Somehow. He was going to amend things.

He got dressed, enough to get on with, and went out into the suite. Hector wasn't seated at the table either – very strange. Where could he be? After all, Linus was always the first one awake.

A snore sounded, and Linus glanced at the couch. Mark was sleeping there, lying facedown in a rather strange position. But he was asleep, so Linus figured it wasn't his problem – yet. It probably would be soon enough.

He rapped his knuckles on Calliope's door. "Callie? Are you awake?

No answer.

He then did the same on Andrew's door. "Andrew? Are you awake?"

"Um –" then there was a long pause. Then, "Yeah, sure, come in."

"All right, I just wanted to let you know," Linus poked his head in, "That Mark is asleep on the couch right now."

"On the couch?" Andrew repeated, sitting in his bed.

"Yes. Do you know anything about that?"

Andrew thought a minute, then shook his head. "Nope."

"Really." Linus glared.

"But I appreciate you telling me."

"Any time. And Calliope's not awake." He started to close the door… "Oh, and have you seen Hector?"

The black man shook his head. "I just woke up, man."

"Okay. But let me know if you see him. He's not in his room."

"Totally. See you."

"Yeah." The door almost closed – then Linus added, "I'm going to go downstairs and pick up the post."

"Great! Go! Do that!"

Linus gave Andrew a rather odd look, but he closed the door at last. Andrew heaved a sigh. A blond head poked up from beneath the blankets.

"D'ye think he knew I was here?"

ooo

When Linus came back from the post, Hector was seated at the small table, reading the '_Daily Prophet_' very casually. "Good morning," he said as soon as his cousin entered.

"Morning. Where were you when I woke up?"

"Walking!" Hector chirruped.

"… Walking?"

"Yes. I am starting to appreciate a fine morning constitutional. What's that?"

Linus held out the long, thin box he'd gotten in the mail. "I don't know. But it's addressed to Calliope, and postmarked from Switzerland. Is she awake yet?"

Andrew walked in as Linus said that. "I couldn't hear any sound from her room," he said. "I'm not sure. But she was playing her violin music at ungodly o'clock this morning. And, Hector—"

"Yes?" Hector sat up a little.

"Thanks for starting the coffee." Andrew smiled.

Hector grinned widely and shrugged about five times.

"Violin? But…" Linus glanced over at Mark. "Hm. Explains how he got on the couch, at least." He walked over to the couch and said loudly, by Mark's head, "Time to wake up, sunshine! Everyone else is."

Mark groaned, but didn't move.

"I'm serious! Rise and shine!"

Mark cracked open one eye. "Don't ever say 'rise and shine' to me again, and stop yelling."

"I am not yelling."

"You're speaking loudly, that's…" Mark mumbled the rest into his pillow.

Linus gave him a keen look, then went and turned on the nearby lamp. "I _said_, rise and shine!" The Muggle gave a little groan and buried his face completely into his pillow. "You're _hung over_," Linus said in disbelief.

Whatever Mark said got lost in the couch again.

"I believe he's saying, 'I'm Irish and I'm Dutch and I don't get hung over,'" Andrew translated.

An evil grin lit up Linus' face. "Well, if you're not hung over, the day can proceed as normal! Say, Hector, can I borrow that menu? Mark, it's just about time for us to order breakfast. What would you like from room service today?" Linus asked in a loud, chipper voice. "Perhaps a nice hearty mess of porridge? Or poached eggs on toast? Or – why not be extravagant? Some pancakes with seasonal fruit and whipped topping, or French toast, or an omelet of bacon and cheese, or…"

"_Stop it!_" Mark's face was green as he looked up. "You are a _sadist_."

"And you, sir, are hung over. I'm ready to be judged."

"Aren't you supposed to be sleep-deprived?"

"I've been working on that, I've been getting much better."

"If there's a potion to stop your nightmares, there's _got _to be a potion to keep me from being hung over."

"I know one!" Hector chirruped.

Attempting to sit up, and failing, Mark started to say something, but lost it in a momentary retch –

"If you're going to throw up –" Linus began.

"No, no, I'm not, I didn't eat anything at all last night," Mark replied hurriedly. "My stomach's just playing tricks on me – this is why I don't get drunk that often."

From regarding the Muggle with disdain, Linus began to understand: "Ah… you were that upset, from last night?"

Mark sighed. "I broke my word to you – more important, I broke my word to _her_."

"Look," Linus attempted, "We all made mistakes…"

"My word was all I had left," Mark said. "Now, please leave me alone."

"… We can talk…"

"I don't want to talk. I said enough last night."

"Very well." So Linus stepped away. As Mark finally sat up, Andrew approached, carrying a glass of a thick red drink.

"Here, Mark. Drink this."

"What is it?"

"More alcohol."

Mark downed the entire glass, then doubled over, coughing and spitting. "That was _not_ more alcohol!"

"Of course not. More alcohol in this state would be very bad for you."

"You lied!"

"Since I've been apparently lying to you for the last something-teen years, I figure a few more won't hurt."

"What _was_ that?"

"A prairie oyster."

Mark stared into the empty glass. "Please tell me it's not what I think it is…"

"Well," Andrew began, "there's black pepper, tomato juice for body, and some kind of hot sauce – Hector insisted on Worcestershire sauce, but I never heard of a prairie oyster without Tabasco in it, so we compromised and used both – don't make faces – and of course, a raw egg."

"Then it _is _what I think it is." Mark sighed. "For the record…"

"Yes?"

"I am really, really, really, _really_ sorry about what I said last night."

"Don't worry about it." Andrew waved it away. "Hector and I quite understand each other now. We're just trying to make you feel better."

After a pause, the brown-haired man shook his head and held out his glass.

"One more prairie oyster, comin' right up."

At 9:15 Calliope walked out of her room, fully dressed and ready to go out. "Good morning, all," she said in a distracted way. "I'm going up North, to see Dora, will be back tonight or maybe not, don't wait up." She took the second to last slice of (dry) toast from Mark's plate and munched it on her way to the door.

"Wait a minute –" Linus said.

She stopped, looking at the bread. "Dry toast? Really?" She returned to the table and began to liberally apply blackberry jam.

"For the record, that was _my_ toast, I was eating it the way I wanted, and why do you have to steal my food?" Mark asked.

"Why are you going north all of a sudden?" Linus asked.

"To talk to Dora, of course. Maybe visit Hollywyck…"

"How? You can't Apparate in this condition. "

"Linus, can't you leave me just a little bit alone?" Linus started to protest, but she held up a hand. "No, not a word, Little Dude, I'm going to be fine and you're not old enough to boss me around."

Linus gaped. "I'm five years older than you!"

"Look, don't worry about it," Mark said quickly. "Take the last of my toast, if you want. I'm just glad you're not angry anymore."

"What?"

"I mean, about yesterday."

"Why, what did I have to be angry at you about?"

Now the two men stared at her. "You don't remember?" Linus asked.

"Should I?" Her eyes widened. "Oh no, what should I be remembering? It's from yesterday, or is it from earlier?"

"No, no, you don't have to remember – "

"But I _want_ to, Mark, what happened yesterday… _you_ went out," she pointed to Linus, "then came back, then we had that meeting downstairs, then…"

"I'm out of the shower," Hector called from down the hall, out of sight. But Calliope looked up.

"Tess." She said. "Tess came to visit… and she said to me…" She stopped. Then, closed her eyes and squeezed them shut. "I wanted it so badly to not be true. But it was. I wanted to be someone else, rather than have it be true."

Then she opened her eyes and muttered, "I'll take breakfast downstairs," and went out the door.

From the couch, Andrew asked, "Wait… Linus, did she just call you 'Little Dude'?"

ooo

'_To Hollywyck, to find Dora, and to demand – what? No_,' in thought, Calliope corrected herself. '_To Hogsmeade_. _But oh, how I want to go home_,' she thought achingly. But as she passed through the lobby, a familiar periwinkle coat and matching hat caught her eye. She stopped. "Fl—Florence—_Fleur_?"

"Ah, there you are, mon amie!" The French soprano turned around, smiling. "You can forget about that call then," she added to the concierge. "_Comment ça va_?" She took Calliope's hand and kissed both of her cheeks.

"Not good at all," the Englishwoman replied bluntly.

Fleur gave her a somewhat reproachful look. "Why ees it, every time I see you, you are in the middle of one crisis or anuzzer?"

"Terrifically bad timing. Or good, if you're my guardian agnel."

"Non, non, non, not me. I'm a quarter-veela, you know; we are not the 'comforting' type by nature, oui?"

"I notice you are rather more the 'snap out of it' type."

"_Exactement_. Now," she said in French, "Listen closely. What I have to say concerns the Order of the Phoenix."

"The Order? Oh, yes, I'm technically a member." They sat in the lobby's tea room and ordered tea. "I'd rather forgotten that."

"Maybe, but _we_ have not forgotten _you_."

"Wonderful."

"Dumbledore is curious as to whether you are willing to perform another mission?"

After a pause, she asked, "When did you talk to Dumbledore?"

"I have connections. But the question…?"

"Isn't it obvious? No."

Fleur's eyes widened. "But…"

"My last 'mission' was a failure, and now I'm dealing with the stress of being, I don't know what…"

"You are not insane, Dumbledore is as sure of this as I am."

"But my mind is _not_ what it once was! I forget so many things now, like your name, where I leave things, things that _happen_. I would make the worst spy in the world."

"But Dumbledore said that you said you would do what you could."

"Phillipa."

"Fleur."

"Fleur. You don't just do everything Dumbledore says, do you?"

"No, but I know you are a member. You have responsibilities."

"I don't want them."

"You agreed to them."

"Well, I can't carry them out now!"

"What are you making excuses for?"

"Look, it's nice to see you. Very good. Can't we talk about something else?"

Fleur looked down, muttering something about getting back to work.

"Oh. _D'accord_. I understand."

"This situation you are in right now…"

"I will deal with it."

"That's not what I meant." Fleur stood up. "I don't want you going into unnecessary danger, but if you're going to use self-pity as an excuse to avoid what you said you'd do, you've lost some of my respect. But," she held out a little card, "I don't want this to be our final word. Let me know if you change your mind."

Calliope took the card – it listed Fleur's address and other contact information. Glancing up, she saw that Fleur was starting to walk away.

"Wait. I didn't say that I was done with the Order for good. But until I get through this… crisis, as you termed it."

Fleur turned back around, her face unexpressive. "And will you get through it?"

"Yes. I always have."

And Fleur left.

Calliope contemplated going to Hogsmeade, and finding Dora. But Fleur's remarks about self-pity rankled. Dora wouldn't appreciate self-pity. Besides, Calliope would want to bring up the blackmail, and the fact that Dora, along with Mark and Linus, had not apparently even considered accepting it.

Well, hex that.

She couldn't undertake Dumbledore's mission, but she had another job. So she requested parchment and ink and a quill, and spent the next few hours writing.

Before she was done, she'd filled up six rolls of parchment, and thrown out one which had too many scribbles. She would not let Linus, when he came downstairs to try and talk to her, see what she was doing, nor Mark, nor Hector nor Andrew, and none of them could persuade her to go back up to the room.

With Mark she noticed particularly the way he watched her, asking only one question, as though she was the answer to everything. She didn't know what to make of his glances. So she buried her confusion and burdened the parchment with more ink.

By about five o'clock, she had finished her confession, and lounged in her chair, watching the people going in and out. Powerful, important people. What would it be like, she wondered, to spy on them?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clerk from the mail desk. "Evening post."

"Yes?" She hurried to sit up straight.

"Three letters for you – rather, two for you, one for your Muggle friend."

The one to Mark bore a formal seal, but she didn't recognize it – it was from the Agnes Stidolph Fund, which she'd never heard of, but it wasn't the Wizengamot, which she took as a good sign. The next letter, a small one, made her wince – it was from Dora. She turned to the last one hurriedly, and stopped. It was a scroll of dark paper with white ink. It matched Luna Lovegood's last letter.

As she returned to her little chair she remembered the last reply she had sent to Luna. She let it sit, and tried to ignore it, to go back to her calm people-watching, but finally she picked it up and opened it with a jerk and a tear.

She calmed her shaking hands, taking a deep breath. '_I was upset when I wrote this. I didn't mean it_…'

'_No self pity, Calliope. You've indulged in enough for today._'

Slowly, she broke the seal and opened the envelope. The writing was slanted, jagged, written more quickly and in far greater agitation than Luna's previous epistle. Worried, the recipient read it quickly, then slowly as the meaning began to sink in:

"Miss Ollivander,

As soon as I got your letter I had to respond. I am so sorry for your betrayal. I know how much it hurts to be so deeply disappointed in the ones you trust and love most deeply, to feel that all your feeling is misplaced. But you must, you must forgive them.

I know I'm young. I know there's a lot about the world I don't understand. But you and me, I feel we're kindred spirits. And I do know something of what you're dealing with.

When I was nine, my mother died. It was an accident. I was watching. My father was the one who found me. I was so young, so shocked, I blamed him for everything. He should have stopped it. He should have been able to stop it. I hated him bitterly. Then I realized, one day, what my hatred was doing to me. It was wrecking me so deeply that if I didn't let go of my anger, I would die. And maybe my father would die, too. Because he was all I had left. I was all he had left. If I didn't forgive him – let myself forgive him – I would die. Maybe not physically, but the death of my heart.

I'm afraid that's what you're going through. Your last letter was so bitter I barely recognized it as you. Please don't let yourself be transformed in this way.

I pray you'll be strong enough to recognize that everyone – even the ones we love the most – make mistakes. I'm not saying you need to forgive right away. I was angry with Daddy for months. (An acceptable time, is the phrase I like. You must forgive in your own acceptable time.)

But times are dangerous now. There's so much hate in the world, my new friend. Please, please, forgive. I know you can.

I have faith in you.

Luna Lovegood."


	12. I Will Try Again

**Chapter Twelve – "I Will Try Again"**

Calliope slowly climbed the steps back up to the room. She felt the letters in her hand, particularly Luna Lovegood's letter, more than she realized when she had opened the door. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see them all at once.

The conversation that had been going on, ceased. Calliope held out the letter to Mark and walked over to him. "Post for you, Mark."

"Did you get the package left for you earlier?" Hector asked.

"No, I didn't."

"It's on the table behind you. I think it's a wand. "

Linus was sitting at the table (writing something out) and held the package out to her. "Here you are."

Instead of thanking him, she took the package, laid a hand on his shoulder, and leaned over, saying softly to him, "Linus, I'm willing to leave the past behind. I'm still upset over what you've done, but I – I get that you had extenuating circumstances to think about. And I need to know exactly why my memory is so fractured, and I have to trust you to help me."

Linus' jaw dropped. "Good! Good! Oh, Calliope, thank you." He hugged her, not putting down his quill. "This is such good news—"

"But I don't want you to be the only one. The witness from your trial, that colleague of yours –"

"Who, Amity?"

"Yes. Ask her to take a look at me as well. I'm sorry, but you and I are too close for us to be cynical and distant. You may get on my nerves too much."

"It shall be done." Linus nodded.

"Then I will try again," she agreed, "and not be so stubborn."

"I'll write an owl now—but your package—"

"First, I'll read this letter from Dora." She sat on the couch and, despite Hector's protests, read through the letter. Soon, she folded it up, smiling; Dora had written to see if Calliope was all right, and to ask if they could meet soon to talk about things. '_She'll have a reason_,' she thought. '_Dora always has a reason_.'

She put the letter down and started, "Now what was that other –"

"The package!" Hector insisted.

"Ssh," said Mark, sitting on the floor in front of the empty fireplace. "I've almost finished this."

"You look rather stunned. Is it bad news?" Andrew asked.

"It's gotta be a joke," Mark said to himself, holding his letter out.

There was a chorus of "What," and "Tell us," until Mark finally read aloud:

"Dear Mr. Printzen,

I am a member of the Board of Trustees for the Agnes Stidolph Werewolf Sanctuary. In the midst of this war, we have opened our estates to the young dispossessed werewolves formerly of Fenrir Greyback's pack, of whom none are above seventeen years of age. However, it is a challenge to take care of twenty-eight children – letting alone those rendered temperamental by their trauma – and very few wizards are willing or able to teach or organize them.

"I am writing because according to our newest arrivals – recent inmates of the Sycorax jail – you formed a connection with them despite your disparities. According to them, you would make an admirable teacher. I am therefore, on behalf of the Board of Trustees, extending an invitation to you to come to the Sanctuary and be the teacher, or group organizer, for our wards. We will reimburse the Embassy any trouble we may cause; a chance to reach out to this lost generation is worth any monetary compensation. Please consider this offer. You will be in a place to improve many young lives.

Yours sincerely,

Ceridwen Brynach

Chairwoman of the Agnes Stidolph Trustee Board."

When Mark had finished reading the letter, he said, "Okay, my first instinct is to leap at this chance like – like it's a very exciting opportunity, but I'm gradually learning caution. What do you all think?"

"Why are these people writing to you?" Andrew asked.

"What have you done to fall into the company of wolves?" Calliope agreed, tucking a black strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's those teenagers, isn't it? From prison?" Linus asked.

Andrew sighed and shook his head. "I never thought I would ever hear it said, 'Oh yeah, back when Mark met those teenage werewolves in prison!'"

"I remember them. I thought they were so young, but apparently they're the older ones?"

"Fenrir Greyback focuses his attacks on children," Linus explained to the Muggle. "Bite them young, raise them to be dependent on him, on their identity as werewolves more than as human beings."

"Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Then why isn't anyone else volunteering to teach these kids?"

"What is there to teach them?" Hector asked.

"I've told you before. Werewolves are disliked, and distrusted. They lose their basic humanity over time," Linus explained. "And you're going to take the job anyway, I can just tell."

"Yes, I am." Mark folded up the letter. "But I am trying to get some advice. Is there any solid reason why I shouldn't?"

"Werewolves are dangerous. They've lived in Greyback's pack. You remember them, when they'd arrived, they'd lost some of their humanity. They were like animals."

"Give me some credit, I've read _Lord of the Flies. _But – are you serious? Even if they're kids, they're werewolves and therefore meant to be reviled?_"_

"Um… yes." Linus shifted his feet. "That's what people say."

"So I'd probably be alone in this venture."

"You don't know who these people are!" Hector pointed out.

"Well, that's what every teacher faces on the first day of school."

"No, I mean the Agnes Stidolph fund."

"They got in touch with the Ambassador, they sound legit."

"But what about your case?" Andrew pressed. "What about that?"

"I really don't know how long that all is going to take, but I won't count on it being short. Any thoughts, Calliope?"

"Do whatever you want, but be careful," was all she said. She was watching him closely. She was comparing the Mark before her with the Spectre of Soul, and on the not-Mark that had appeared. But in this moment, she could discount that memory: that had been illusion, and this Mark was real, and human.

She had a feeling that there was something very important that she should be remembering right then, as she watched Mark, but she couldn't think of it.

"I'll do it," Mark said firmly. "One," he held up a finger, "I need something to do other than sit here and feel threatened. Two, these kids need someone, three, this is something I can do. I'm going to go and talk to the Ambassador about it right now."

"You do that," Linus said, "and I'll write a letter to Amy. Oh, sis, I'm so glad you're agreeing to participate again."

"Participate…" Calliope agreed. But her mind was elsewhere. She was supposed to tell Mark something…

Then Hector cleared his throat next to her. "Um, yes?"

"That package that came for you? I really, really think it's a wand…"

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Right." She bent over the brown paper package in her lap and opened it. It was a narrow, long box, with _Switzerland _stamped on it.

Gregorovitch.

She opened the letter that had come with it. It read, in French,

"_Dear Mademoiselle Ollivander, I have been thinking very much about your visit, and have decided that yes, I will take extra security precautions. As a thank-you for your warning, and as a token of my respect for your family, please accept this antique wand as a gift. If it does not favor you, feel free to hand it off to another, perhaps a family member – you know wands must choose their holders. I am sure you will find a suitable holder. This is an old and very valuable artifact, and. I give it to you assured that I am placing it in good hands. Thank you, and I wish you all luck in recovering your uncle._

_Hansen Gregorovitch_."

Carefully putting the letter aside, she opened the box. "It's a wand. Surprise, surprise."

"Let me see?" Hector's fingers were twitching.

"Let me have a look at it first, if you don't mind." She studied the carving on the handle: instead of the usual depiction of the tree that the wand had come from, or even an abstract design, this was a stylized depiction of a snake. Carefully carved, the snake held in its mouth a little twig of willow. The wand was larger than usual, as the carving of the snake nearly doubled its width. "This would take some getting used to," she remarked. "And _yes_, Hector, you may see it."

Hector took the wand gleefully. "Willow wood," he said at once. "Impressive snake carving, I must add, if unorthodox…"

"Well, this is fun and all," Linus said, standing up, "But I really must compose a letter to Amity now. So," he nodded to everyone, and left.

"Tomorrow will be a big day," Calliope said to no one in particular.

"Oh, yes… prodigious," Hector replied vaguely.

She looked again at the note from Gregorovitch. "Best of luck in recovering your uncle." She read the phrase aloud to herself in French, then English.

"What are you reading?" Andrew asked, innocently enough.

Calliope stood up. "What am I _doing_?"

"Um…"

"What, _what_, I've just forgotten again!"

"Forgotten what?"

"What I was doing this for. Self-pity, I have the self-pity of a flobberworm, who do I think I am?"

"Now you've just lost me. Are you okay?"

"Andrew," she turned to him. "I've just gotten more clarity than I have in _days_."

"… Good for you?"

"Very good for me. I've got to send out a couple of letters, excuse me…"

This was it; things were going to be different now. She wasn't going to keep wallowing in self-pity. Yes, she had been through a traumatic experience, and yes, she owed it to herself and everyone around her to get better as soon as possible, but that was no excuse to shirk her duties. If she could do something, she should, and furthermore, she _would_. Somewhere, Uncle Servaas was out there, counting on her to make things better. She'd taken the first step into the Order of the Phoenix. It was time to try again.

ooo

Hector put down the wand from Gregorovitch. "Calliope? I'm done with it now."

"She got distracted by something," Andrew said. "Just leave it on the table. She'll find it. Want to go for a walk?"

"Sure!" Hector hurried to put on his coat as Mark re-entered the room. Andrew asked him, "Everything's settled?"

"Everything's settled. I'll have a cab to escort me there tomorrow morning. Now I've got a lesson plan to set up…" his composure shattered into a million pieces. "_Oh god Andrew what have I gotten myself into I must be insane!_"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down there partner, just calm down." Andrew put his hands on Mark's shoulders. "Deep breath. This will be fine."

"Yes… yes… it will be… you're sure?" Mark looked up at his friend, panicking.

"Yes, I'm sure. Draw up your lesson plan, nice and easy."

Mark nodded and left, and then, arm-in-arm, Hector and Andrew sauntered out the door for a little stroll – destination: anywhere.

After a while, Linus came out from his bedroom. "Anyone else need anything posted – where'd everybody go?"

He looked around. His completed letters were in his hand, and the place was deserted. "Weird."

On the little table was the wand that Calliope had gotten in the post.

"Hello, you," he said when he saw it. "You've come a long way." Just to get a feel for it, he reached out and picked it up.

The wood felt charged with electricity. It was warm, and felt almost alive in his hands. Linus would have sworn his hair stood on end, except that that would have been illogical.

Absolutely illogical.

He could tell at once that this wand was immensely old, subtle, and powerful.

And he knew, just as surely, that the wand had chosen him.

ooo

In the middle of the night, Calliope woke up from a muffled sound from next door. It sounded like a shout. She started awake, until she remembered: Linus had begun to experience night terrors – nothing to be alarmed about, much as she wanted them to stop. '_I thought he was taking a potion to sleep,_' she thought drowsily. After a while there was no more sound –

Except for pacing?

Yes, someone was pacing, and writing, in the next room. She slipped on a robe over her pyjamas and went to see who it was.

It was Mark, using up the complimentary sheets of parchment – which were very small – to write out some list or outline. He had already filled up several sheets.

"What are you doing?" She asked, when she was close enough (and he hadn't noticed.)

He jumped. "Oh! Outlining. For tomorrow. I just realized I don't have any equipment, books, not even a lesson plan. If I even had just a film projector I could show them movies – first I'd have to get videos – but I've got nothing. Nada!"

"Relax. You'll think of something. You need sleep more than you need a lesson plan."

"You're right," he sighed.

"Of course I am. But I'll agree, movies would probably be an excellent idea. They certainly worked for me."

He grinned. "That was the best – you me, the old cinema, and the classics, every Wednesday night. You really never had seen a movie before, had you?"

"I did watch a very old copy of – I think it was Hamlet? But that was it. I want to say," she added after a moment, "I really did enjoy our movie outings. Every one. I wasn't faking it a bit, being with you. And… I always felt bad about deceiving you the way that I did. And I know that Andrew did, too."

Mark smiled, slowly, looking like his old self. "Thank you for telling me that." He gathered up his papers – Calliope handed him a few extras. "Thanks again."

"One more thing—"

"Yes?"

"I want to tell you, I really admire what you're doing, going to this school, to help these children. It's something I don't think I could do." She looked into his face, and neither of them could think of anything else to say.

Unbidden, the memory of the Spectre of Soul returned. There was the image of Mark, in a darkened room, on a couch with her. But there was all the difference in the world between then and now. Something fluttered in her chest – it felt like – and she took Mark's hand. It was warm and squeezed her hand at once. More flutters.

"You're a good man," she said, "And I forgive you." She kissed his cheek lightly. "Now, I hope that will do for your honor – not to make light of the situation. Come on, we should both get some sleep."

Mark smiled broadly.

He was still smiling the next morning when Andrew was talking to him, "All right, so there's about thirty children there, so you should probably ask for a roster of names – alphabetical order is never a bad place to start. And then set up a lunch hour, if they don't have one—Mark? Hello, Earth to Mark?"

Mark was shaving in front of the mirror, smiling vaguely. Andrew waved a hand in front of him, to only a token reaction. "Do you want something?"

Hector, who was observing nearby, added, "By the way, new owl since this morning from them."

Mark nodded. "Mm-hm?"

"Instead of a sanctuary for werewolves it's a dragon preserve. You have to fight off twenty – no, wait, thirty-eight dragons armed with a box of toothpicks." Pause. "That's the _dragons_ who have the toothpicks, not you."

"Uh huh, very cool."

Andrew and Hector exchanged glances. Andrew asked, "All right, so what did Calliope say to you?"

"Huh?"

"Come on. You're all lit up like a Christmas tree. Spill the beans."

"Oh – just last night, nothing special. She said a few things to me."

"Uh-huh? Like what?"

"Nothing you need to hear."

"Right. Mark, Hector and I have been talking."

"What about?"

"We figured, one good turn deserves another. You missed a spot," Andrew added.

"I know, but get on with it."

"Well, since you were instrumental in helping Hector and I get over our initial hurdles –"

"I said I was sorry about that."

"You don't have to apologize! We learned to appreciate your bluntness – in time. And we decided, we should help you get over _your_ hurdles. Although to see the way you treat them, they're more like gigantic mountains."

"Mountains set on fire," Hector added.

"What do you mean? Your metaphors are losing me."

"Your hurdles with Calliope – _duh_."

"Ssh!"

"What? She and Linus are both gone. Anyway, point is, we're going to help you – what's the phrase you used yesterday, Hector?"

"Get over himself."

"Yes! You're going to get over yourself and figure out what to do about this girl."

Scowling as he dried off his face, Mark insisted, "I do not need your help."

"Sure you do. You are at one devilish impasse, mostly with yourself."

"That's still my business. _Not_ yours." Mark pulled on a coat and overcoat.

"Yeah," Andrew agreed, "and you know, it's _my_ business as to whether or not I'm bisexual."

Mark winced. "Okay, okay, point taken."

"But let's talk about it, 'kay?"

"I'll think about it, but I don't have the time to talk right now. I'm getting picked up in – yeah, five minutes, so get out of my way!"

He was still thinking about it, and smarting about – '_the indignity! As though I can't deal with my love life by myself! They have no idea what all of this means to me…_' He could stop his thoughts when he stepped outside. At once he took in a lungful of fresh air. '_I haven't been outside in forever_.' Not stepping outside of the Embassy gates, he looked up and down the road – what would a magical car look like?

'_I probably won't be able to see it_.'

So he stopped looking for the car, and instead studied the flowers growing around the front of the Embassy – all red, white, and blue, which made him smile. Then a voice nearby asked, "Mr. Mark Printzen?"

He turned around. "That's me!"

His escort held out his hand. "I'm to take you to the Agnes Stidolph Sanctuary." He was a thin man with brown hair streaked with grey, and a kind smile.

Mark shook it. "Good to meet you. Do you work there yourself?"

"No – but I've had dealings with them in the past. I specifically requested the chance to pick you up. Come on, the car's this way."

"Why did you want to pick me up?" Mark asked, sizing the man up and down.

"Well, because you're a teacher, and I'm a teacher, too," he paused, "in addition to being a werewolf."

"Oh! Wow! Sorry, but I didn't catch your name…"

"Nothing to apologize for. My name is Remus Lupin."

ooooo

A/N: Stay tuned for Remus Lupin – _not_ this chapter, but the chapter after this one! I promise they won't be published far apart.


	13. What Amity Tweak Had To Say

**What Amity Tweak Had To Say**

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter is later than I intended. Full disclosure, I'm going through some hashing out of the upcoming chapters. I want to publish the best possible chapters, but I also want this story over with. So, be patient, please. And, as always, thank you.

ooo

Calliope and Linus were walking together, braced against the cold, down a small suburban street. Linus was checking the house numbers for Amity's place, and was explaining apologetically to his sister, "So, yes, the wand that Gregorovitch sent over, it chose me. It was very sudden."

"Yes, I believe you."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for, Linus. I know as well as you do, wands choose their holders. And the letter said that I should find a new holder for it – glad I didn't have to make that choice."

"I just, I just feel a bit badly about it. I mean, I already have two perfectly good wands, and you haven't got any."

"Yeah." She frowned. "I told Scurry to lock away the plum wand in Hollywyck – that Death Eater disarmed me in serious combat, so the wand belongs to him now. Which is just dandy, you know."

"But you need your wand back, sooner or later."

"I'll manage… Which one is her house?"

"It's guarded, and mostly invisible, but she said she would be standing out in front."

"Oh! I see her!"

Amity Tweak was waving and running towards them. She was wearing a very bright patterned scarf tied around her neck, and she hugged Linus instead of saying hello. To Calliope she whispered "hello" in a tiny voice. "It's lovely to meet you. Please let's go inside – it's hard to talk over the noise."

The "noise" consisted of the occasional car, the distant traffic, and a few obnoxious starlings. Amity led them to her house (a cheerful, small abode). "I still live with my parents," she said softly, as her mother appeared at the door.

"Good day to you! Welcome, come on in, the tea's all set in the parlor, and I've told the boys to give you all perfect privacy. You see," she added, taking their coats, "The little boys – Amity's brothers – are staying with us. Hogwarts just isn't safe enough, I think. I want my boys at home. Besides, Amity and Frank and I can teach well enough – poor thing, though, since her voice…"

Two blond heads peered curiously at the visitors from down the hallway, but Amity scowled at them and they disappeared from sight. She led Linus and Calliope into the parlor, where several books on Memory Magic sat, as well as a large notebook lying open. Amity pointed to it.

"You'll write in this when you want to talk?" Linus interpreted her gesture.

Amity nodded, smiling.

"What exactly, if I may ask, was done to your voice?" Calliope asked.

Amity wrote in her notebook and handed it to her. It read, "Turpin Rowle – the man that kidnapped you – slipped me a potion in my chai tea. Healers said they never saw a potion like it before, but it had the same effect on my voice as if I had been screaming a lot every day for fifteen years. In short, there's scar tissue on my vocal cords that they're trying to get rid of. It will take a while."

Calliope looked up at her. "I'm so sorry."

Amity shrugged.

Handing the book back to her, Calliope said, "The potion that was fed to you – someone tried to poison me in St. Mungo's. They didn't do a good job of it, but the potion was like the one they tried to give you – unique, and imprecise."

Amity raised an eyebrow and nodded, causing Linus to say, "You know, you can't just do that as a substitution for speaking."

Amity cocked her other eyebrow, and Linus sighed. "Of course, what do I know?"

Grinning to herself, Amity fixed Calliope with keen blue eyes, in an expression eerily reminiscent of her brother.

After a moment, she took out her notebook and wrote, "Now, you're my patient. Tell me everything that happened pertinent to your captivity, everything at all that you think relevant."

"Er…" Calliope glanced at Linus.

Amity tapped him on the shoulder, then gestured, _Out_.

"What? But I'm her brother!"

The same gesture.

He glared at her, then, "Fine." He took his teacup and two biscuits and left, adding, "I'll be in the kitchen."

When he was gone, Amity nodded to Calliope, and wrote on her pad. She handed it to the other woman, who read, confusedly, "How are you doing? How's your day been?"

Amity nodded.

She thought. "Not bad, actually. Yesterday I had a real moment of clarity, which really brightened up my day. And I've been writing letters and things."

Amity nodded encouragingly and pointed to the book again. It read, "What do you like to do with your free time?"

"When I'm not in prison or in hospital? Heh… Well, I like music. Actually, yesterday I spent a lot of time writing out something…." She reached into her satchel. "It's an account, or confession, or… whatever you want to call it, of what happened. You can read it if you—"

Amity shook her head, and gestured, _Read it aloud_.

Calliope knew it would be no good to protest, so, in a soft and uncertain voice, began, "Well… Just for background, I guess… I had a sister named Benedicte, once."

ooo

Three cups of tea later, Calliope had reached the moment when the phantom Patronus had appeared. "I couldn't explain what it was – it pummeled him with the disc and looked at me, and I realized it was Benedicte, and I was terrified."

By writing, Amity asked, "How did you know?

"It was – I couldn't quite tell. There were no shadows, on a white face, you know what Patronuses look like. At first she looked stern, like she was concentrating on something, the way a Patronus _should_, you know? But when she had knocked him out, she looked at me with a – with a little smile. I was very bewildered.

"Then, she led me upstairs. Through the house – I'd never seen the rest of the house before – and then out to the back gate. But she vanished when someone approached. No, she didn't just vanish. First, she kind of touched my forehead. Do you want me to demonstrate?"

At the Obliviator's nod, Calliope reached up and touched her own forehead.

A frown.

"Oh. You mean on you."

When Amy nodded, Calliope tentatively reached out her hand. "Like –" she poked Amy's forehead with her thumb. "Um, like that.

In writing, "Did you feel anything when it vanished?"

"I don't know. It was mingled with the surprise of the person who showed up. But when the Patronus had touched me, I felt – like a baby again. Safe. Protected. Then of course, the person showed up… I don't know who it was, but it was a middle-aged woman who opened the gate for me after a minute. I think she must have lived there. Then, outside the gate was where Fleur found me. That was when I was set free. Technically speaking," she added.

"And how have you been feeling since then?"

"Confused. I don't feel like myself. I got a headache when I touched this book of mine – '_The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga_.' It had belonged to Benedicte before me. And Linus – I feel angry with him all the time. He treats me like a child. No, like a test subject."

Amity tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully.

"And another thing – I can't stop wondering about what happened to the painting of my brother and sister and I. And about the set telling the story of the Rod of Asclepius."

The nod, again, saying _Go on_.

"The frame's… useless now. It broke off in my hand. It had seemed to be – you know, oak lasts a really long time. I don't know what to think about that. But – I'll tell you why I think the wood broke off. Oak is a strong wood. It doesn't splinter easily. But to make a frame is one thing – it's intended to stay firm, to show off a picture. A wand, however, is made of wood selected for, with a particular capacity for channeling magic. It's given a core to do most of the channeling. But when I used the wood in the frame, I was using non-magical wood to – "

Amity shook her head, and whispered, "There was some magic."

"Sorry?"

She wrote, "It had absorbed magic by osmosis for the past twenty years. A magical painting gave it some ability to channel, which was probably why it worked at all. Now, give me a minute to think."

She paused, and then wrote down extensively in her notebook. Then she handed it to the other woman.

"_Expecto Patronum_ is a spell that requires memories to work. Memories agglutinate." (Calliope made a note to look that word up.) "You drew on memories to make the Patronus, and the magic came through them and moved through the frame, acting on the memories within the painting."

"The same way it would have worked on a phoenix feather," Calliope said aloud with a flash of inspiration. "Or a dragon's heartstring, or unicorn hair."

Amity nodded, gesturing _Read On_. Calliope did so.

"It didn't stop there, though. The strongest personality in that painting's memory was probably Benedicte. Her memories were added to the magic, and further along the chalk circle, there was another memory of her, so the spell went for _that _one next, Until it manifests as the Patronus that it was intended as, but something more, too."

Calliope thought about it. "Like a snowball set down a hillside, that gathers and gathers snow until… But what do you mean, something more?"

The Obliviator shrugged. When she got the notebook back, she wrote some more, and handed it over. "All of those items were imbued with spirit, with enough of B—'s life to give them a bit of her identity. The painting must have taken hours to make, to fill with her spirit – then, the little puppets, which she poured hours of dedication and thought into – everything was a part of her, and put that into the Patronus."

After she read this, Calliope nodded. "I guess so. And those were the memories that snowballed together… You've got a smile on your face. Why?"

Amity squeaked, "I was just thinking – it makes extra sense that these memories would consolidate to each other into a Patronus, of all things. After all, your sister must have loved you very much. That's perfect to help make a Patronus My own little brothers drive me crazy, but I'd –" she coughed loudly, then managed to say, "pummel anyone who hurt them."

"Please, don't strain yourself," Calliope urged. "Do – do you think her memory is erased forever?"

Amity shook her head.

"Could Linus break the Memory Charm?"

"Not Linus," Amy croaked. Taking up her notebook, she wrote, "It's insanely dangerous to break or cast a Memory Charm on yourself. But you or anyone else who still remembers her might – I don't know how, though."

"But what does her memories turning into a Patronus have to do with me and my memory loss?"

Again, Amity shrugged. Writing, "I have a theory. First of all, you mentioned yourself that there are three missing days between your capture and when you were found. I'm sure those missing days were Modified from your memory. Three entire days. That alone would play havoc with anyone's short-term memory. As well, you said that deep-seated memories from early in childhood were taken. That, too, will mess you up."

After she read this, Calliope dryly remarked, "You really are less formal than Linus. But that still doesn't explain the weird… compulsions I've been having."

"I have a theory," Amity started, when a loud crash sounded. She got up at once and went to the kitchen. Calliope trailed behind.

In the kitchen, one of Amity's little brothers was standing, covering his mouth in horror, in front of the wreckage of what had been a serviceable and noble cookie jar. "I didn't _mean _to," he wailed.

Linus, sitting at the table, stood up. "Allow me." He hesitated, then pulled out the new wand he'd received. "This is a very stubborn wand," he explained to the two women, "doesn't even want to levitate without putting up a fight… but, here goes. _Reparo_." He tapped the shards, and at once they formed themselves back into the jar. The cookies, too, flew upward and retuned to their place. "Oh…" he said.

Amity nodded, then beckoned to Linus to join them in the parlor. To her brother she shot a look saying _I'll let Mum deal with you._

When they sat down again, Amity started to write at once. Calliope explained to her brother what the Obliviator had said thus far, and finished with, "She has a theory that she says would require Leglimancy. I'm not so sure about it…"

Linus listened, then turned to his colleague. "What is this theory? Or is it something else you can't tell me?"

Amity shook her head and held up her finger to indicate _Just give me a minute_. She continued writing, as Calliope asked Linus, "So the wand's stubborn, hm?"

"I don't know, it took to _Reparo_ very quickly – and did a good job of it, too. But anything else is like pulling teeth from a Doxie…"

Amity waved to get their attention, and then handed the book to Linus to read aloud. He started, "C created a Patronus powered in part by B's memories." To his sister he asked, "You did?"

"Keep reading."

"The Patronus returned to her when it was no longer needed, as it should. But the Patronus returned to her bringing B's memories. Then, because C has had major sections of her memory tampered with, the foreign memories worked in easily to fill the gaps that Turpentine had made. I _think_." Linus put down the book. "You _think?_"

"It's what she does," his sister quipped.

"That's an incredible assumption to make," Linus said to Amity.

"But it explains a lot," Calliope said, half to herself.

Her brother looked at her, skeptical. "Do tell."

"It explains why I've been taking on some mannerisms I can't explain – drawing, for example, or calling you 'Little Dude' – why I have periods of time when I don't feel like myself, or exactly remember what I've been doing. Why I'm acting like you're my younger brother instead of older."

Linus asked, "Have you used a wand left-or-right handed, lately? Because Benedicte was probably right-handed."

"I haven't had much chance at all to use a wand lately, Linus."

Amity whispered, chipper despite her ragged voice, "Just stay calm, don't let your temper or fear get away with you and you should be fine." She began to whistle as she took the tea set away. (If Mark had been there he would have recognized the tune as '_Always Look On the Bright Side of Life_.')

When she was gone, the brother and sister sat silent on the couch for a long time. Finally, he said, "I think we need to get you a wand."

She replied, "I'm not sure any wand will choose me at this point."

Amity came back in, and Calliope asked, "What do you suggest to do to deal with this on a day to day level? What if I start acting more like Benedicte than myself?"

To reply, Amity wrote out something very quickly in her notebook, then tore it out and handed it to her patient. It read,

"Do the things you love, the most Calliope-ish things you can.

"Spend time with the people who make you feel your best.

"When you feel compelled to act Benedicte-ish (a Benediction?) obey it, but not with abandon.

"Don't avoid B reminders, if they're a part of your day-to-day life, but don't seek out new ones, if you can.

"Remember, the human mind is pretty darn resilient. Friends and laughter and love can do a lot to help it.

"Feel free to write or visit me if any troubles arise.

"I will certainly let you know if I get any new insights.

"And that's all I've got to say about it."

ooo

Meanwhile, far away, in a house on the moors of England, Melanthios Matin was strolling along his ancestral halls.

All was well, at least as far as the house was concerned. As for the kinds of guests admitted into the place nowadays, he had a somewhat different idea – especially as concerning the frail old man moved into the basement, which was certainly no pleasure-stay – but then, Melanthios couldn't offer much comment on the situation, as he was a painting.

It had been his custom, back in life during the early 16th century, to take a constitutional every day over his lands, just to make sure everything was running smoothly, and that there were no pesky Muggles or other trespassers. And when his portrait was done up, everyone had laughed to see how his likeness had taken over that same habit – "canvassing the grounds," they laughed.

When the real Melanthios had died – and that was many, many years ago – his painted self had taken on the old habit as a sort of duty. He was now the oldest painting in the house, and had acquired a certain amount of wisdom, in the way of portraits.

So, when a new painting was installed in the library, Melanthios was eager to introduce himself. Besides, the painting was set up in some obscure, cobwebby corner of the library (facing the books on economics), and would probably get lonely.

He passed through the other library paintings, giving his customary greetings, but they all seemed rather distracted and frightened. Finally the painting of Pertelote Matin (his granddaughter) just admitted, "It's the new painting. There's something wrong about it."

"Pish-tosh," Melanthios had scoffed. "I remember the huge uproar when that Impressionist piece was moved into the dining room. And now it's one of the most beloved paintings in the house. I'm sure it's just unfamiliarity."

But he stopped when he entered the new painting.

It was absolutely still, absolutely silent. The subjects were arranged so: a teenage girl standing behind a couch. On the couch sat a very young boy with a baby girl, as if they were playing.

Nothing that Melanthios did could wake up the subjects, incite them to speak, or in any way move.

They were almost like… a _Muggle_ painting.

But that couldn't be. Melanthios had met a few Muggle paintings in his life, and you could not enter them. This painting was enchanted, but somehow – the enchantment had been blocked.

"Damn and blast," he muttered.

Being a portrait, he had no magic of his own. But as he was still, in a sense, Melanthios Matin, he felt personally responsible for the well-being of his household and all in it, even if now his responsibilities were limited to the two-dimensional residents. How could he resolve this situation?

He sighed, and thought of all the strange guests who had been entering the house lately. Perhaps one of them would be able to help.

Though they didn't all seem the friendliest sort… Well, he'd always been a good judge of character. If one came along who seemed likely, he would ask their aide.

Hopefully that day would be soon…

ooo

Shameless Plug: Stay tuned for next week's, "What Remus Lupin Had To Say."


	14. What Remus Lupin Had To Say

**What Remus Lupin Had To Say**

A/N: Canon Guest Star this week – well, guess.

* * *

><p>Mark thought. There were theoretically better places to be than riding in a car on the way to a Werewolf Sanctuary. A werewolf sanctuary where he was supposed to be the sole teacher. Not to mention he was with a werewolf right now. But <em>this<em> werewolf was a teacher, too, and more than happy to give counsel, so life was good.

"Great, I could really use some advice. Do you have any materials for me? An overhead projector or even just some sheets of paper –?"

His escort chuckled. "Mr. Printzen, if you managed to make an impression on four teenagers when you were alone in a prison cell, I really think you'll be just fine."

"Really?"

"A teacher isn't defined by his tools, after all, but by his ability."

"What about what he knows?"

"Well, that's pretty important too."

"But what do I have to teach them?"

"You have to…" now Lupin fell silent. "Miss Santos told me about you. The story you used inspired her deeply. She told it to me, in part. I'd never heard it before, but it's on the right path. Yes, it's definitely on the right path."

"… Do you want me to recite the entire saga of '_The Lord of the Rings'_?"

Lupin chuckled. "I don't think so. The point is, the story that you told did not talk down to Miss Santos. There was no easy happy ending. The characters struggled, and every victory was won at a great cost. But there _was_ victory, even if it was imperfect. And there was joy. That was a story that she needed to hear."

"'Fairy tales are more than true,'" Mark quoted, "'not because they tell us dragons are real, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.'"

"Who said that?"

"G. K. Chesterton."

"Hmm. I may borrow that quote. You need to understand – the stories that Fenrir Greyback has been telling these children, him and the others in his pack, those are very different stories. Stories of brute survival, of the cruelty of the human race, stories which all end with the moral, 'the only happiness at all is to be found in being with me and being like me, beware of all others.'"

"You…" Mark hesitated, "Seem to know a lot about him."

"I do."

There was a long silence before Lupin went on, "You're not a wizard, Mr. Printzen."

"I kind of noticed."

"But you're able to reach out to other people, and connect with them. You try to understand them, and you enjoy teaching them what you know. You make a good friend. That's a great power in and of itself. That's what these students need."

"Then, you want me to be a friend to them?"

"Well… no. What you need to be, first of all, is a teacher, a leader. All of these children have been living in a pack. In the pack, there's one leader, the Alpha. They've been indoctrinated into living under that hierarchy…"

"And you want me to encourage it?"

"No, but that's where you've got to start from."

"Speak their language."

"Exactly. From the minute you step onto that campus, you've got to make sure that you're the Alpha and everyone knows it. You get up there, you take charge."

"Yeah…"

"And if anyone tries to fight you – and one or two people will – you hold your ground, tell them to sit down, and if you must yield, make it clear that's a favor. If you start off looking weak, they won't respect you.

"Pardon me, but you seem to have this all planned out. If you're a teacher and a fellow werewolf, why aren't you teaching them?"

Lupin gave a humorless chuckle. "It's called the Werewolf Registry. Every year more legislation gets passed along banning me from another job – thanks to my own misadventure three years ago, teaching is now banned to me."

"What?"

"And as it happens I do have prior engagements."

"You're a werewolf and you're not allowed to even teach other werewolves?"

"No."

"Where is the logic in that?"

"I believe it is somewhere in the idea that I may lead them to revolt."

"With laws like that I wouldn't blame you!"

"Please don't let anyone from the Ministry hear you, Mr. Printzen. Changing the subject, you don't believe in corporal punishment, do you?"

"God, no!"

"Good. That's how Fenrir Greyback operates. Pain and threats are his weapons. You've got to be above those things."

"Doesn't dominating, being the leader, always carry a threat of force?" Mark mused. "Sorry, that was my final paper on a class back in college."

"Good question, Mr. Printzen. But you've already said, you don't use those tools."

"That's right."

"Then you have got to lead them by virtue of _being_ a leader."

"… I like cyclical logic."

Lupin chuckled. "Sometimes cyclical logic is the best kind."

"Once a king of Narnia, always a king of Narnia, like that?"

"Um… yes, though I don't get the reference."

"I'll explain later."

"You can't equate leadership with power. It has to come from you, at all times. That's why I say that today, books or charts or quills will be of secondary importance. You've got to realize you are the teacher, and then got to get them to accept you as such. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I'll help you as much as I can. These children know me, and see me as a superior."

"Why can't you teach them, again?"

"Prior engagement." He gave Mark a weary smile. "I'll treat you as my superior, so that… you see what I mean?"

"Yeah. I do. But I don't want to just be, like, a dictator all the time."

"I'm not saying that's what you should be. There's a lot of children, and they will all need someone different. But as a whole, as a group, you need to be the Alpha."

"To start with."

"To start with, yes."

Mark leaned back and sighed. "Anything else? What kind of – look, from what I've picked up, these are kids who have some pretty serious trauma behind them. Should I – well, I guess I don't have the choice."

"There's always a choice. But what are you asking?"

"Being a counselor, or a psychologist. That's the term I'm more familiar with. I'm going to have to help them with these trauma."

"They won't open up to you at once."

"I wasn't expecting that."

"None of them will. But when one of them does –"

"Yes?"

"You must not lie. You must not say, everything will be fine, you'll be able to live a normal life, it's behind you now. Not a single word of that. These children are werewolves for good. They cannot live normal lives, they'll be rent from Muggle civilization and outcasts among wizards, they'll be like me – old before their time."

"You want me to be honest with them."

"Yes, exactly."

"But I barely know anything of what they've been through – and anyway I'm not equipped to be a psychologist!"

"Maybe that'll be to your advantage. Both of those qualifications."

"The foolish of the world confound the ones that are wise… wow, I'm quote-happy today, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't know. Are you nervous?"

"Um, yes. But I'm really glad you're here to tell me all this, Mr. Lupin."

"As am I," he agreed. Then, quickly, "Not to sound vain or anything."

"There's vanity and there's knowing you can help. You can definitely help and I am grateful." He looked out the window, trying to figure out what neighborhood they were in. "Do you think that being, um, Muggle will hurt my chances? Or American?"

"Neither of those things will matter so much as not being a werewolf, Mr. Printzen. And by the way, don't let anyone bite you. Not because that might infect you – though you must take every single precaution – but because in the pack, to bite another werewolf is a way of asserting dominance."

Mark grimaced. "Okay, can I get a crash-course in werewolf etiquette, please?"

ooo

The Agnes Stidolph House was in a quiet, wooded London suburb. It had a wide lawn and thick banks of trees surrounding its property. A car drove up the front parkway, and stopped.

The children, raucously playing on the grass, stopped, one by one, to look at the car with wide-mouthed curiosity, which only increased as two men got out.

As the two men walked to the house, one slightly following the other, one girl's eyes lit up and she gasped.

On the stairs, grey stone above the gravel walkway, a plump, white-haired witch with a pointed face smiled as she greeted the two men. "Mr. Printzen," she said, shaking the hand of the man who was taking the lead.

"Ms. Brynach, I presume?" The man shook her hand in return.

They went inside, and the children began to talk about them at once.

"Wasn't that Remus, from the pack? Why was he following? Who was that other guy?"

"He looked rather cheap, if you ask me."

"No one asked you!"

"I bet I could take 'em."

"Probably another annoying adult."

"Quiet, all of you!" snapped the girl who had watched the two men approached with a light in her eyes.

"Ooh, look who's taking command now—" sneered one of the boys who'd been imprisoned with her, but he didn't get to finish because she turned around and tried to twist his arm. He responded in kind, and soon they had a proper little wrestling match going. The other kids chanted "Go! Go!" around them, until a whistle sounded.

The wrestlers broke apart at once; the two fighters tried quickly to tidy their appearances and make it look like they hadn't been sparring, not at all.

On the steps to the lawn, the three adults were standing there. Ms. Brynach had her whistle at the ready, and blew it again. "Line up, now! Everyone form a straight line!"

It was soon clear that the children were geometrically challenged.

Mr. Printzen observed this, and he observed that the children were all wearing the same cheap uniform, of an ugly yellowish-gray fabric. More than that, they had a sense of solidarity. Before Mr. Printzen stood a fledgling army, that he had to… god help him… teach.

But right there in front he saw Guadalupe Santos, beaming up at him. He smiled and nodded to her.

"You are the Alpha," whispered Mr. Lupin, behind him.

Then Mr. Lupin stepped up.

"Attention, all of you! This is Mr. Printzen. He is going to be your teacher."

"That's right," Mr. Printzen agreed. Then, louder, "That's right."

As Mr. Lupin introduced him to the students, loud and clear, inside his head, Mark thought, soft and vague, '_O brave new world, that has such people in it_…'

ooo

Remus Lupin's advice turned out to be spot-on.

Within five minutes after he left, a teenager stood up and said, "And who exactly said _you_ should be in charge of us, eh? What gave you the right?"

"Your kind guardian, Ms. Brynach, said so, and furthermore I accepted the responsibility, and… that's why."

"You're not even a wizard!" Said another teenager – Mark assumed, perhaps he'd been in the Sycorax as well, but, being a wizard, had never been in the Muggle wing.

"And what difference does that make?" Mark demanded. "I'm not teaching you magic."

"You have no idea what we've been through!" the same teenager insisted.

And Mark nodded. "You're absolutely right. I have no idea. I know it's been traumatic, and painful, and that none of you are the same people that you were before. Well, in contrast, I'm not the same person that I was before I entered England. I've been captured, imprisoned, falsely accused, searched and shocked, racked over the coals, and told at every turn how worthless I am, next to a wizard. I know that what you've been through is on a completely different level, but I do know something. And I'm going to reach out to you – all of you – and I'm not going to stop, until you've made a connection, and remembered what it is to be human."

He took a deep breath. That was a lot of sincere improvisation, and a lot to live up to.

"Got it?"

There were a few murmurs of "yeah."

"That's 'Yes, Mr. Printzen,' and I expect to hear it loud and clear. Let's try again."

"Yes, Mr. Printzen."

"Come on! You are my students, I expect you to be organized like students. Once more!" Yes. Students. Not a pack.

"Yes, Mr. Printzen!"

A pack has nothing to learn.

"That's better!"

Students have nothing to fear.

ooo

"So how was your first day?" Calliope asked as Mark walked in the suite door. She was in the parlor, practicing her violin. In response, he fell into a chair and sighed.

"That bad?"

"It's… a whole lot to take in. A whole lot of children. And some of them are being very difficult." He looked up at her, propping his head on his arm. "These are kids who won't look me in the eye, and who refuse to talk to me at all. I don't know whether it's because I'm a Muggle or because I'm not a werewolf. Most of them are – more along the lines of normal, for teenagers, though… angry, angry teenagers who are all hiding from me… How was your meeting?"

"It went well," she said, sitting opposite him. "Amity respected my privacy, but when I'd told her what happened, she gave a very reasonable explanation."

"And that is?"

"Would you believe me if I said that the explanation was that there are many gaps in my memory, which ended up, because of some improvised magic I did, being filled by memories of Benedicte, and which therefore means that I'm being compelled into acting like her?" She fixed him with an inquisitive stare.

He thought. "I would be a little confused, and dismayed, but I would believe you." Then he tried to smile. "Why can't it ever be as easy as a good old fashioned Jungian complex?"

"Because we're witches and wizards, and magic sometimes messes with us in ways that we'd much rather avoid. Anyway, one of her suggestions for helping me… deal with this is to partake in the most Calliope-ish activities that I can. Hence, violin."

"That sounds good."

"Yes." She paused. "You know, it's going to be rough. I can't complain about anything because you'll be able to tell me a story about the werewolves you're working with."

"I don't have a problem with complaining. You should know that."

"You'd think…" The door opened, and Andrew came in. "Mail call. A letter's come for you, Calliope." He handed it to her.

"Thanks." She opened it, and her eyes widened as she read it.

"Who's it from?" Mark asked.

"Dumbledore," she muttered.

"Who?" Andrew and Mark asked together.

"Never mind," she said, standing up.

"What is that?" Mark asked.

She said, slowly, "Well, you have your assignment… now I have mine… not, though, what I was expecting…"

ooo

At the Ministry of Magic, a security guard stopped the tall, black-haired woman trying to walk past. "Excuse me! I'll need to see your wand, Miss, before you can enter."

"I haven't got a wand," she answered flatly, staring at him with unnerving, pale grey eyes.

"Err – then I'm afraid you're not allowed past this point."

"I am supposed to meet someone over there, by the fountain – or, what used to be a fountain," she pointed.

"Until they pick you up, then—"

"I am not a child, sir!"

"I'm well aware of that, but if you are meeting someone from within the Ministry, they should be able to…"

"Excuse me." A third voice cut in. The speaker approached, a short man with sharp green eyes, wearing robes of an imprecise dark blue. "Don't worry, O'Flaherty, she's with me." Over the apology of the security guard, he gave Calliope a curt smile and nod. "Miss Ollivander, I presume?"

"That is me, yes."

"Please, come this way." They walked into the Ministry together. "So," the man said conversationally, "You're the one who comes with the oh-so-special recommendation?"

"Is that what you're calling it?" she asked with a weak smile. It was most likely from Dumbledore, most likely giving a very good reason why she, a wandless witch who had just been kidnapped and returned, should work at the Department of Mysteries.

"Yes – and I'll be frank with you, not everyone in the Department is quite keen on the idea."

"Not even with Albus Dumbledore's name on it?"

He raised a cynical eyebrow. "You've been away a long time, haven't you?"

"Only two years, sir!"

"A lot can change in two years," he answered darkly. "But don't worry about that."

"Well, Mr—"

"Call me Mr. Larson."

"Mr. Larson, I hate to be a bother on anyone."

"No, I rather appreciate your recommendation. We can use all the help we can get. Repairing the Department of Mysteries will be a full-time job, and I'm warning you now. But we might go easy on you on account of your—"

"—Psychological history?"

"Yes. Once we understand each other a bit better. We do embrace eccentricities in our line of work, but enough is enough and too much is plenty, if you get my drift."

"I do, sir."

"Very well, then."

"I shall not be a burden. Sir –"

"Yes?"

"I would like to, if I may, assume a different name. At least while I start. I've been the focus of some attention in the papers… I would rather avoid that recognition, at least at first, sir."

"Ah. Dumbledore mentioned you might prefer that."

"Did he?"

"Yes. And my coworkers and I find it agreeable. Have you chosen…?"

"Yes. Call me Miss Calliope Samara, if you will, until people get used to me."

"Of course, Miss Samara." Mr. Larson smiled – and suddenly Calliope thought that Larson was far too normal a name for anyone in his Department. "Right this way."

Mr. Larson said nothing on the way to the elevator, so she thought about Dumbledore's letter to _her_, sent care of Fleur…

"_I have been informed that there is likely a Death Eater initiate in the Department of Mysteries. Naturally, a hold on that particular area of the Ministry could have grave consequences. I want you to be my eyes and ears…"_

They got off at Level Nine. '_My new workplace,_' Calliope thought. Mr. Larson led her through the large black door, saying "Department of Mysteries. _Semper Sub Rosa_. Watch your step, Miss, this is a right confusing roulette."

And it was. It was a large, circular room lit candles giving off blue flames and blue, spiraling smoke. Twelve doors lined the walls, surrounding a hardwood, circular parquet in the center. She followed Mr. Larson there, who stood up and said "February Room!"

The door behind them clicked loudly, and the room began to spin. Calliope had to close her eyes until Mr. Larson said "It's all right; you can look now."

She looked, and the door in front of them had opened into a very normal-looking corridor. "Right this way."

She couldn't stop herself asking, "Do you use this entrance all the time?"

"Sometimes. But the professional Unspeakables – that is to say, not you – have another door. Much simpler."

"Of course."

He pointed out offices and stations as they walked down the corridor. "The February Door, where you'll be spending your time, is obviously where all administrative work takes place – papers, filing, and so on. You'd be surprised how much paperwork the solar system requires. I've heard Pluto is in danger of reclassification… and won't that be a lot of work for everyone."

"Paperwork?" she asked tenuously.

"This is the only suitable work for most volunteers. We don't want incompetent spellcasters mucking up the other Doors, but even doing the paperwork helps. Ah! I see your first task now."

"Shouldn't I be introduced, perhaps, first?"

"That can wait until after lunch. Goshawk!"

He stopped a young woman – not much older than Calliope herself. She was carrying a large crate of empty potions bottles and cauldrons, which clinked loudly as she moved. She pursed her lips as she looked Calliope up and down. Miss Goshawk had light brown hair cut in a triangle around her shoulders, with neon green streaks throughout.

"Yes? Mr. Larson," she added, as if an afterthought.

"Miss Samara here is one of our new volunteers. Why not let her help you take those to the cleaning station?"

Miss Goshawk wrinkled her nose a bit. "Sure. Why not." She set down her load, and Calliope realized it was actually two crates. "Get the cauldrons."

Calliope picked up the crate, nodded to Mr. Larson, and followed her new colleague down the hall. "So – " she tried to start a conversation. "Goshawk? Like Miranda Goshawk?"

"Yeah. She's a third cousin. Most boring old lady you ever met." The colleague turned around. "Haven't I seen your face somewhere before?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so…"

"I'm sure I have! Not really? No?"

"Absolutely not."

"Okay." She settled back into step. "You must have a lookalike or something running around. So I'm Circe, by the way. Been working here three straight months, what a gig. You wouldn't believe the crazy stuff I do, but I like it that way and I never get bored." She grinned at Calliope, showing a mouth with three gold fillings.

"Ath. That's something." Circe seemed friendly enough, but Calliope was sure she was hiding something. Or maybe a lot of things. But she didn't probe or pry; she had a job in front of her, and that was enough for now. Besides, what did she expect in the Department of Mysteries?


	15. Mark's Moody Mondays

Mark's Moody Mondays

The lessons at Agnes Stidolph had started on Wednesday, but they began on earnest that next Monday.

Mark sat down the entire student body – all twenty-eight students – in a circle on the floor of the music room. Tall windows overlooked the lawn and a wall-length mirror opposite reflected the windows. It was full of light and Mark liked to think that the ghosts of all the songs that had played there still lurked in the corners.

When all of them were seated and roll had been called, Mark began to speak. "Now I've spent the last couple of days getting to know you, at least a little. I see a lot of anger among you, and a lot of fear. You've all been changed by your experience, but you're afraid it wasn't for the good. I want to help you. I want to help you come to terms with what was done to you. It will never be over, so I can't say, 'move on,' but I can help you come to terms with it, if we work together. And the way we're going to do that is to talk.

"Every Monday we're going to sit in a circle, just like this one, and you will tell me your stories. Tuesday through Friday I'll give you all the stories I know, but Monday is your stories. Your lives before and after Fenrir found you. Your dreams and nightmares. If you don't want to share that's fine. If you want to talk to me in private that's fine too. I'll stay after hours every day just for that purpose. But share with me and with each other – what you wish to forget, what you fear when you look in the mirror. I'm listening."

"You're kidding." That was Paul. Paul was one of the older students, a wizard who chafed under any authority. "Every Monday we're supposed to sit around and talk about our feelings like a bunch of faggots?"

"Paul—"

"Do I look like I need a hanky and teacup?"

"Paul. You don't have to share anything, but listen respectfully, please. And we do not use words like 'faggot' in my school."

"Your school? Sorry, I didn't realize this was _your_ school, thought you was just teaching a few classes on account of –"

"_Paul_." Mark put an edge to his voice – what he'd started to think of as an alpha edge. Use sparingly. Paul slumped, still grumbling – he would mumble throughout and spoil the effect, but Mark could handle that. "Any questions? No one _has_ to share. Good? Okay. Who wants to start?"

ooo

"If you want people to talk to you about trauma, you have to be ready to _listen_, and be sure they know it."

The night before, Mark had asked Linus for advice, because if anyone could help on getting people to talk about horrific experiences, it was the Obliviator.

"Make it clear you are receptive. Let them talk. Once they get going into a flow of words, don't interrupt unless you have to. And don't say things like, 'Oh, I know,' don't finish people's thoughts for them, unless they really need the prompting. Start finishing their sentences and they'll clam up, because clearly you know everything they want to say already so why bother? At least," Linus looked apologetic, a rare state for him, "That's always the problem I've had."

ooo

To everyone's surprise, a routine developed out an impossible situation. The American Embassy became "home." Everyone found their job.

In the morning Calliope would leave for the Department of Mysteries. Linus, every afternoon, went to Amity Tweak's house to go over her latest case files, help her make sense of them, and practice a bit with the Gregorovitch wand. He called it his "half-job."

They waited for news and letters: from the Obliviator and Paramnesiac Department, tendering Linus' resignation, and above all, from the Ministry of Magic, setting Mark's next trial. His date finally arrived in a little envelope, over a month in the future: October 31st, 1996.

The irony was not lost on Calliope, although it was lost on Linus. And in addition to their volunteer work, both of the Ollivander children wrote lots of letters. Calliope received letters almost daily from Fleur, who further relayed messages from Dora. There was typically an enchantment to break, for the words were encrypted. Fortunately Calliope could use at least some Weatherwax magic to crack open the code, then the letters' true contents revealed themselves: How to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Thinking strategically, spells to attack and defend and reconnoiter, Death Eater tactics and how to counteract them, espionage basics. Calliope created mnemonics, songs, poems, to help her remember these, and her regular lunches with Fleur remained on much the same topic (between discussions of interior decoration and France). She also wrote to Luna, whose replies were always swift, thoughtful, and cheery.

Linus sent out exactly one letter every evening and the same time, and received little mail in reply. Calliope asked, he said that he was writing to their father in France, to keep him informed.

Everyone found their niche. Hector's niche was actually a small conference room off the Embassy lobby. He'd started to causally tend and repair the wands of the Embassy employees he got to know, and gradually more and more people came to him. Traveling posed many dangers towards wands, and the convenient location suited the international guests.

He began to charge reasonable fees for repair and restoration, and the Ambassador even gave him a room for his own, albeit unlabelled (before he'd simply sat at a table in the lobby café, drinking a lot of tea.) It wasn't long before he got customers from other Embassies, and word-of-mouth started to spread.

He was happy with this, but one issue nagged at him…

It was in the lobby that he met his cousin, out on his way to his half-job. "Linus! I finished the results of the Dating Spell on the wand Gregorovitch gave you. I think we need to talk."

"Sure," Linus took the wand back from Hector's outstretched hand.

"Linus… your wand is old."

He gave him a look. "Considering Gregorovitch is _probably_ the world's leading collector of antique wands, I'm not surprised."

"No, I mean, old."

Linus frowned at the wand, then at Hector. "Nineteenth century?"

"Older."

"Eighteenth?"

"Nope."

"Okay. The Stuarts? The Tudors?"

"Older than that."

"You mean this survived the Goblin Rebellion of 1533?"

"I'm telling you, it's older."

"Are you sure you're not misreading the spell's results?"

"I triple-checked."

"What, is it older than William the Conqueror?"

"Cous…" he put a hand on Linus' shoulder, "I think your wand is older than _England_."

"You're kidding me."

Hector's face indicated otherwise.

"But the condition…"

"It's amazing, I _know!_ But my spell results seem nearly impossible. So I analyzed the style of it as well as I could. You know, the carving methods. Took me a while to dig them up. Together, I had to estimate – conservatively – that the wand dates, in its earliest form, from 300."

"300 A.D. That's ridicu—"

"B.C."

Linus suddenly felt he ought to lean against the wall for support. "That makes… that makes this wand practically priceless."

"One of the oldest surviving wands in the world – and in good, workable condition, too. That's some present to you."

"It was Calliope's gift. It chose me."

"I know. And I am just amazed at the serendipity of the world, to give you this. Of course," he added conversationally, "if you damage it in any way shape or form, I _will_ be obligated to skin you alive, slowly. Just keep that in mind. Have a nice day!"

Linus considered this information, as he watched his mild-mannered cousin walk away.

He did try testing it out, measuring its strengths and weaknesses – which seemed to be very unbalanced. It was all right at Charms and communication, but ill-suited to Transmogrification, and destructive or generative spells. It almost seemed to have a will of its own, but that was to be expected with such an old object.

But the fact was that the only spellcraft the wand appeared to excel in was repair work. And because Mark could only break so many quills, Linus didn't use his new-old wand (as he came to think of it) as often as its age merited.

He didn't try using it when he attended his "half-job" with Amity. Though Linus had been sacked, Amity was still given assignments – minds to diagnose, paperwork to do, and research to compile. Linus could help with that. And if Amity somehow always had a spread of tea ready for him when he arrived, that was fine too.

ooo

The next Monday, it was the circle again, with Mark in the same place as before. Guadalupe sat down at his side. He began, "All right, sports fans, like last week, we're going to sit and listen respectfully as we share our stories, no matter how—"

"Are you serious?" It was Paul again. "Last week was bad enough. Are we just gonna have an endless stream of Mark's moody Mondays?" He laughed, and so did his buddies Claude, Jonas, and Pip – until they noticed Mark was laughing too.

"Mark's Moody Mondays! I like that," the teacher declared. "Who's ready to be Moody, Morose, and, mmm…. Misanthropic?"

"What's that last word?" asked Tara, one of the younger girls, who spoke very rarely but collected words like a magpie.

"Hating humankind in general – being a cantankerous grump."

Later that afternoon…

"Andrew, why are you going out for drinks with that misanthropic grump?"

"Because, Mark, behind every misanthrope is just another human being. Every Scrooge needs his three ghosts. I just want to find out how Linus ticks." Andrew pulled on his scarf – a recent acquisition against the English autumn.

But even Linus wasn't quite sure why Andrew wanted to drink with him. So Andrew explained, "I wanted to talk for a minute, outside of what's honestly a pretty suppressive environment. You ever get that feeling?"

"All the time."

"Of course."

"But why a bar?"

"Oh, I just prefer the thought of sitting down someplace nice and warm and trying a proper English pint, you know. It's chilly outside. Why are you giving me that look?"

"You sound so much like Mark when I first met him."

"Wow, big surprise." Andrew grinned.

"Be honest." Linus draped his coat over the back of a chair. "You're here to talk about him, aren't you?" He sat down, clearly unamused.

Andrew shrugged. "I have to have an ulterior motive, of course. Yes, I'd like to talk about Mark. About Hector. About Calliope. About Mark _and_ Calliope. About that weird thing your eye just did."

"What thing?"

"Never mind. Also, I just want to get to know you." '_And figure out exactly why you and Mark appear to hate each other_,' he added in thought. "What do you say?"

For a moment Linus' eyes had a far distant look, then he appeared to return to the moment. "All right. But let me ask the first questions."

"Fine."

"I've always been curious – what was it like, growing up a wizard but never knowing? I can't imagine that – that ignorance."

"It _is_ weird, looking back," Andrew agreed. "But I was used to weirdness, and finding out just helped a lot of things make sense. I mean, my sister and I had always seen buildings that my parents couldn't. They thought we just had overactive imaginations. But I had this one friend – more of a buddy, really. His name was Joey. _He_ was a wizard, my age, and had a convoluted way of being friends, trying to let me know about magic without actually telling me. I never forgot about him, as the years went by. Then when Tabitha – my sister – got her letter – it all clicked. My folks were stunned."

"What happened to Joey?"

Andrew's smile had been growing fainter and fainter, and now it faded entirely. "Funny you should ask. He died. Suddenly – as far as I can tell, it was a congenital thing. I know your situation is weird, but… we have this much in common, someone dying when we're just kids. It… well… I really don't know what to say next."

"Neither do I," Linus took a sip of his drink. "Considering I don't remember the person in question. But, don't get me wrong. I appreciate you telling me that. Next question."

Their conversation went on, but something about Joey Reed had piqued Linus' curiosity, and he kept returning to that, and so he and Andrew talked for a long time about Muggles, and magic, and the pains both sharp and banal in early childhood.

ooo

As for her current activity, Calliope had not expected working at the Department of Mysteries to be amusing. And to a certain degree, she was right. It was new. It was challenging. But, in its own way, it was _fun_.

All the volunteers – from retired store owners from rural corners of England to Hogwarts grads looking for their purpose in life – tended towards the eccentric. The Unspeakables gave out lists of tasks, but no instructions – for example, "Research the Bell of Ricochet-Time (which had been broken in June, when six Hogwarts students and a squad of Death Eaters invaded the Department) and see if the spell can be recreated."

And the volunteers would take that instruction in odd ways, and figure out their own answers.

Oh, there were books aplenty, but the group seemed to think of looking in books as admitting defeat. One volunteer, Miss Glaser, declared that the glass Bell had been crafted in Murano, Venice, and proposed a group expedition there. Circe Goshawk had poured careful measurements of chamomile tea into the shards of the broken bell to see if the magic would steep, un-steep, and re-steep the liquid.

And Calliope herself – having been told to use any of the shards of glass as she saw fit to find out about it – carefully laid her bare hands on the largest piece of the glass bell. Tuning out the inquiries of "What are you doing?" and "Have you washed your hands first?" she focused on the material itself.

Just like in the office. That time… she took a deep breath, and in her mind's eye, turned the glass into a wand.

She didn't cast any spells, but it made a bond, a connection, vague and unsteady as it was, with this magical object. And this object had a history – a past – that wanted to be told – and told – and relived – and

She snapped out of it just before the haphazard magic in the shard woke up fully.

"I think I get it," she said, sitting back. She turned to another volunteer. "This glass was imbued with magic before it was ever fired. The sand itself was enchanted – maybe the sand itself was made from another bell like this. It's been a recreated artifact."

"Fascinating," murmured the other volunteer.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, before Circe Goshawk interrupted, "Oh my _gawd_! You're bleeding!"

Calliope looked at her hands. "Oh, no, not again."

Her old wounds had reopened – her cut hand from her imprisonment with Turpentine, and even more oddly, her Splinch from the night she'd left America and lost her wand.

"Well, that's what you get for meddling with things man was not meant to grasp," Circe said good-naturedly. "Come on, up you go." She took Calliope by the arm. "I've got just the thing."

In the washing station of the ninth level, usually reserved for potion bottles and similar, Circe Summoned a bottle from her personal locker. The bottle had a little paper umbrella in the stopper.

"Personal blend," she explained proudly as she shook it up like a salad dressing and opened it. "Won't even leave scars. Now hold out your palms."

"Does this potion disinfect as it heals?" she asked.

"Oh! Right, I always forget that. Hold on, I got the swabs for it right here…"

This didn't exactly boost Calliope's confidence. Circe got out swabs, cleaned up the blood, and tossed them aside. Then the salve was applied, emitting a strong odor of lime and mint. "I got the idea after drinking a Mojito, those things are great," Circe explained, grinning. Calliope was about to ask something when Circe began to hum.

"_Flower, gleam and glow, let your power shine… make the clock reverse… bring back what once was mine_… What?" She stopped when she saw Calliope's face. "Didn't your Mum ever sing to help the healing?"

"Yes… yes, she used to." Her mum. Philomel. She hadn't been able to think of her mother clearly since her imprisonment, but for a moment she could see her clearly, and hear her singing that little old song.

The memory faded. Calliope sighed. She couldn't be caught up in that right now… she tucked that memory away and said, "You like making potions?"

"Oh, yes! If I were allowed to I'm sure I could brew up some astonishing things—trouble is you get in trouble for all the interesting ones."

She raised her eyebrows. "The interesting ones?"

"Oh yeah!" But Circe suddenly became guarded, as if she thought she'd said too much.

"So, er, how about that Harry Potter? Is he crazy or what?"

"Oh, he's crazy all right," Circe checked her watch. "Did you know he was dating a Muggleborn a while back?"

"Really."

"Yeah! And she was stringing him along, too – imagine, a Muggleborn stringing along _Harry Potter_! Who does she think she is?"

A shrug on Calliope's part. "Teenage girls can be very strange."

"But Muggleborn! You know, that's the problem with Muggles. And Muggleborns. They have such inflated opinions of themselves. (Here, time to rinse off your hands.) And all they think about is—"

A bass voice interrupted from just outside the door of the cleaning station. "Is that my little sprite?"

Circe squeaked as a broad-shouldered, tall, dark, and handsome man entered. "_Daddy!_" She pounced him.

It took Calliope about a second to realize that "Daddy" was not meant in a paternal sense. The two went on for a few minutes proving their significant other status in front of her until, rather embarrassed, she cleared her throat and said, "Hi, we haven't met. I work with Circe."

Circe disengaged, "Oh, yes, darling, this is Calliope Samara. Calliope, this is Proteus Troup, my boyfriend."

"So I gathered."

"I work as an aide in the courtroom," Proteus explained.

"But that's only a temporary gig," Circe gushed. "Proteus is really an _actor_."

A pause. Then Calliope remembered to say, "Oooh. Can I get back to work now?"

"Oh, sure – your hands should be fine. Just tell them I'll be up in a minute." Circe waved her away.

Once she was a safe distance away, Calliope rolled her eyes. '_If I'm ever in love, please don't ever let me be like that_.' Then, '_Well, Mark might be a bit of a show-off, but that wouldn't be too – what? Why am I thinking of Mark?_' She shook her head and checked her hands. They were already healed, well enough to get on with.

"She knows her stuff," she muttered. '_How can someone that scatterbrained – that gushy with her boyfriend – be a Death Eater? Is she? And if not, what was with her remark and hushing up? Is her boyfriend a Death Eater, too?_' she added in thought. She filed it away for later as she re-entered the Department of Mysteries.

Miss Glaser greeted her with a doleful frown. "Larson said we can't all go to Venice after all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Venice would have been lovely," she said, sincerely.

That night Calliope recounted the entire story to Mark. "And then she did this – wait, I have to get it right – this little head toss. 'Proteus – is an _actor_.'"

Mark snorted. "Pretentious? _Moi_?"

"And he's just kind of standing there, with Circe draped on him, kind of nodding—"

"The strong, silent Marlon Brando type?"

"Probably. Probably. Wait – I have no idea."

"Right, you don't have to pretend you know who Marlon Brando is. You deprived soul."

"Well, it gave Andrew and I something and I to talk about. Oh, before I forget –" she leaned forward, wearing a serious expression. "Mark, are Hector and Andrew…" she paused.

"Doing it?" he supplied.

"Yes. Are they?"

"Yes." He gave a sigh of relief. "God, it has been such a chore carrying that around."

"Since when? Have you always known?"

He rolled his eyes. "I knew the morning after they… um… the morning after they got together. I may even been the catalyst."

Calliope leaned back, her eyes wide. "Do I want to know?"

"It's not like that! I just – it just involved me getting – um – very drunk. Drunk enough to tell Hector that Andrew is bi. And available. Er, was available."

"Are they really an item?"

"I don't know about itemhood, but it's kind of weird and cute at the same time."

Linus looked in from his room. "Are you talking about Hector and Andrew?"

"Yes," his sister answered.

"They're a couple?"

"Yes."

"God! That explains a lot. Things have been awkward around here."

Mark added, "Tell me about it."

"You didn't know?" Calliope asked.

"No, but frankly I had my suspicions about Hector – confirmed bachelor and all. It's weird."

"What's weird?" Mark asked sharply.

"I mean – Hector – liking guys. You know."

"Actually, I don't know what's so weird about that." Mark narrowed his eyes.

"Gentlemen," she said warningly. "Linus, do you know what a gay pride parade is?" When Linus didn't answer, but just gave his sister a very odd look, she went on, "I attended one or two in Boston. I suggest the same for you; it might help lend some perspective. I understand that it's surprising, but still…"

"Get used to it," Linus frowned. "I'll try… it's just surprising, that's all."

"Nothing wrong with surprise." Calliope got up and picked up a blank piece of parchment and a pencil. "I'm glad it came as a surprise. If there's one thing I hate, it's being kept out of the loop. Especially when it's some big and emotional deal and no one thinks to tell me…" she looked back. "What is _with_ you two?" she demanded.

Linus was giving Mark a look that would have curdled milk, and Mark was looking as guilty as a sad puppy. He continued to look guilty until Linus left. Then he sat back, grinned, and said lightly, "Well, Calliope, if you really don't like being out of the loop, I may as well tell you –" he paused.

"Yes?"

"I –"

There was a muffled spell from the next room, and Mark's jaw clamped shut. He glared furiously in the direction that Linus had left in, and slumped in defeat.

ooooo

Endnote: This may seem like a frivolous note on which to end the chapter, and it is. This was honestly going to be a bit longer, then I realized that 19 pages might be a _bit_ much for one update. So expect the second half of this chapter soon!

I am quite busy nowadays in college, working on my thesis paper as well as armfuls of work for other classes, and so the schedule may slip from time to time. For that, I apologize. But keep in mind that I am always working to make this story as good as possible for you, my readers. I will never, ever give up on this work, until I can put down the quill and say "It is over."


	16. Zero at the Bone

Zero at the Bone (or, Mark's Moody Mondays Part II)

Author's Note: the title of this chapter is a reference to the Emily Dickinson poem, "A Narrow Fellow in the Grass," which describes the encounter of the speaker with a serpent. The last line is, "_[I] never met this fellow, /Attended or alone, / Without a tighter breathing, / And zero at the bone."_

Also, I promise only one more chapter like this and then the plot kicks back into high gear. As always, enjoy!_  
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ooooo

"What I absolutely hate," Mark began on the third Moody Monday, "is when other people interrupt me, or keep me from talking, or just from any kind of communication. What about you? What are your conversation pet peeves?"

It was Monday the 23rd of September. After class that day, Mark had listened to Tara excitedly talk about her family's tradition of writing letters to each other every Christmas. Tara had begun to cry before she was halfway through her story, and Mark coaxed her through the rest of it. After she had left, he wrote down on a notepad,

_Very important, must get students – esp. Muggles – back in contact with families. Letters. What paperwork to fill out this time?_

"Hello?"

He looked up and saw Ms. Brynach, the Headmistress (for lack of a better term) standing in the door. "Are you wrapping up?"

"Yes, I am. Can I help you?"

"I just want to say, Mr. Printzen, I think you've been doing a lovely job, positively astounding, considering all your difficulties of – well, background and preparation and such. I am very impressed, and so is our board of trustees."

Mark smiled. Ms. Brynach reminded him of a few teachers he'd known – bright and tidy and a bit grandmotherly. As he followed he asked her, "How many people are on this board, exactly?"

"Enough. Come this way," she opened the door to the basement, "we've only just prepared it over the weekend and I want you to see it." As they went down the stairs she went on, "To prepare for the full moon this Friday we wanted the safest and most secure transformation area possible…"

"Area?"

"Well, of course – someplace where they'll be secluded and unable to escape. Mr. Sargents based ours on the one in the Saint Mungo's werewolf ward, which is supposed to be the best one in the country. Here we are!"

She pushed the door open. Mark squinted, willing his eyes to adjust to the light. "Um, nice windows…"

"Well, of course. It aids the transformation when moonlight can enter."

"Yes, I've read that… I've been reading a lot about werewolf…" his jaw dropped. "Are these – _chains?_"

"Well, yes. What did you expect to see?"

"… Chains."

"Yes. One for each limb, and we've used the weight of the human children to estimate what size they'll be when transformed and based the chain size around that." Ms. Brynach pushed a stray white hair back into her bun. "As you can see the smallest chains are in the east end, and the larger ones are that way… The larger wolves may break their chains but we can hope that there won't be too much pandemonium –"

"Do you even _hear_ yourself?" Mark asked.

Ms. Brynach looked at him through her spectacles. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Do you really think that this is humane?"

"_Humane_ is not the issue here, Mr. Printzen." Ms. Brynach's tone became icy. "The qualities we want are secure and sanitized – to within as reasonable a degree as possible. You seem upset," she observed.

Mark glared at her, his arms folded. "Yes, I'm sorry for being upset at the prospect of my students being chained up like animals."

"They _are_ – I'm sorry, they _will be_ animals once the moon rises. They'll forget everything. We can only hope that it's a clear night, so the transformation is painless…"

"Do we need to chain them?"

"Yes, so that they pose the least amount of danger to each other."

"And then they wake up as humans, naked and chained?"

"It's better than letting them wander free – a dozen post-pubescent werewolves, Mr. Printzen, _do_ use your imagination."

"That – I don't want to, thanks. Will there be anyone upstairs to help in case someone gets hurt?"

Ms. Brynach gave a short laugh. "Of course not! Heh, I'm sorry for laughing, really I am, Mr. Printzen. But first of all, the transformation back to human closes up most of the wounds made in wolf form – and secondly, the facility is going to be deserted. Werewolves go berserk if they smell a human in the area. A Healer _treating _a – I'm sorry, it's just too ridiculous. What books have you been reading on the subject, by the way?"

"Well… _Full Moon in Crescent City_, _City of Werewolves_ – American books, I don't exactly have a first-rate library over there."

Ms. Brynach paused before choosing her words, leading Mark out of the dungeon – it couldn't be just a "basement" anymore, not to him. "All right. Do either of those books detail being a child werewolf?"

"No…"

"Then maybe you should do a little more reading before you complain about this being humane."

"But – " He sighed. "Ms. Brynach, can you understand where I'm coming from?"

"Of course," She smiled in a soothing way. "You're a Muggle, you must have romanticized notions of what werewolves are. Don't look so angry."

To Mark it was a choice of either looking angry or punching something. He said, "If I'm such an incompetent Muggle, why are you even keeping me here?"

"I did not –" Ms. Brynach pursed her lips and glared at him. "You've been _asked_ to come – and you can leave any time you want – because you're the only person who has not turned down the position. The _only_ person. And that's because you're a Muggle, bless you."

She looked out to the front gate. "I think your ride's here."

"Yes, that does look like the Embassy car," Mark replied.

"Mr. Printzen –"

"Yes, Ms. Brynach?"

"I don't believe in angry partings. I really am impressed with what you've been doing. Listen. When my older sister, Agnes, was turned into a werewolf, I had to rethink everything that I knew about them. It was a bitter pill, to break down all of my paradigms like that, but I did it. And now I'm doing it for you, rethinking what I thought a Muggle could be. Do you follow me?"

"… Yes. Your sister, Agnes…"

"She was the one this school is named after. I… I took care of her, from time to time. I know _very_ well what the life of a werewolf is, and I probably know as well as any normal human what a werewolf is when transformed. _Do not_ doubt my judgment. You have your area of expertise, and I have mine."

He nodded slowly as two people – a black man and a tall woman – (Calliope? Even at this distance he could tell, and his heart leapt) – got out of the car and walked towards them. "Is there _any_ way for it to be more humane? Do you _need_ the chains?"

"We're in the middle of a fairly residential area, Mr. Printzen. If we thought we _didn't_ need chains – and it's my opinion we do – the Ministry could have us shut down for so many werewolves, near so many homes, who are 'only' locked up underground. I'm sorry – unless we could get them the Wolfsbane Potion. But that's so tricky to make, and the ingredients will cost so much – I calculated it myself – like I said, I based it off of St. Mungo's. You can visit their facility and see if it's any more humane than ours."

"I might do that. I get it; this is your expertise."

"And don't you forget it. Why don't you introduce me to your friends?" There she was being perfectly grandmotherly again. He got a strong sense of whiplash.

In the car with Andrew, Mark huddled in the backseat and looked out the window. Calliope (who had come along for a brief drive out) asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine; I'm just wondering, can we make a detour?"

"Where to?"

"I'd like to visit St. Mungo's."

Calliope turned around sharply. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Well…"

"Did one of your students bite you?"

"No! No one's bitten me. I just want to see what their werewolf ward looks like."

Over an hour later, they were back in the car. Mark was glaring out the window. Andrew asked delicately, "So… was it an enlightening visit?"

"Not in a good way."

Calliope bristled in the silence. She asked Andrew, "So, how was your day?"

"Pretty good, actually. I spent almost an hour in a conference with the Ambassador… he's pretty stuck to the idea that rescuing a friend does not _quite_ qualify as a national emergency."

"… You didn't tell people it _was_, though… right?"

"Well, let's just say we only got this far because of my job in the States."

"And that is?"

"I don't have that much to do until Mark's trial, really."

"But your job…"

"Thinking of trying a few touristy things… but I have no one to go with…"

"Hey, Andrew!" Mark sat up. "What if you became my T.A.?"

"Your what?" Calliope repeated.

"Teaching assistant?" Andrew turned to look at Mark.

"Eyes on the road! And yes, teaching assistant."

"I don't know the first thing about being a teacher's assistant!"

"I'll show you the ropes. Look, half of my students have magic. You can help them, give them a little training. I'm not asking for much, just a second chaperone – and maybe someone to help with P.E.?"

"What? Of course, the black guy is going to help with P.E."

"Andrew, don't play the race card with me. You'd like it. You're sicker than anyone else of just sitting in that Embassy. Come on. I'll give you something to do."

"I'm fine!"

"You're bored."

"I think you should do it," Calliope commented.

"See? You liked school. And the kids, I read, will probably be even harder to control right before the transformation. It, it works with their hormones, makes tempers run high."

"And you invite _me_ to the city of Pandemonium."

"I just could use a little help. Please?"

Andrew grumbled loudly but incoherently all the way back to the Embassy. But the next morning, he parked in front of the School and joined Mark, wearing a proper suit and tie. Stability suited him, but boredom didn't.

With Andrew present, the curriculum of the Agnes Stidolph School expanded greatly. Over the course of September and October, Mark and Andrew developed, between themselves, a few respectable classes: Science (mostly practical, hands-on pyrotechnics); Muggle and Magical History of the 21st Century; British Government (which involved a field trip to the Embassy) and various level math courses. Mark led a class in literature with verve and gusto – novels, poetry, short stories, venturing into dark and bloody fiction to give his students truths that they needed, full of fear and strength, anger and hope. Andrew taught drawing – or at least drawing in the style of "Peanuts," which was his only artistic strength. Soon they were all Charles Schulz acolytes. They even found time on Fridays for a small-scale drama class.

Mark fairly astonished Linus and Hector with how organized and focused he became once had a class to teach. And he never was satisfied with where he was. He started out with minimal equipment, but soon wanted textbooks, art supplies, science supplies, field trips all over London, nights out to the theater. He hinted to Calliope that a few music lessons would be wonderful, but she always pretended to go deaf when he started.

ooo

"So…" Hector asked Andrew, after dinner, "When you're not acting as Mark's teaching assistant, what exactly do you _do_ for a living?"

"I work for the Pentagram."

"Oh! The magical defense division of the U.S. Government… right?"

"Exactly."

"Then… what do you do?"

"I can't tell you."

Hector had finished up buttoning. "Oh, you can just summarize, give me a few points and I'm sure I'll get the idea…"

"No, I honestly can't tell you." He started to grin.

"What? Why can't you?"

"Because it's top-secret."

"Pssh, yeah right! Come on, Andrew."

"I can't tell you." His grin widened.

"Okay, fine, what department do you work for, at least?"

"Can't tell you."

Hector fumed. "You expect me to believe that you work for a part of the American government so secure that you can't even tell me what the department is?"

"Believe whatever you want."

"What would even happen if you told me? Would you lose your job?"

Andrew thought. "I can't tell you."

"You're _horrible!_"

"No need to make a fuss."

"Fussing is in my nature," Hector grumbled.

Andrew glanced at the papers strewn along the bedside table. "And that's why you've been fussing over the nature of Linus' new wand for so long?"

"I want to get it exactly right! Gregorovitch was _very_ lax in failing to give me any information about it –"

"Well, he didn't send it to you."

"I know, but he's one of the leading world collectors of antique wands – why just give a wand away without saying what its origin story is? Every wand has a history behind it. You just need to be able to make it talk." As Hector reviewed his notes one last time, Andrew tugged at his sleeve.

"Come on. Speaking of coaxing words out of a reluctant source…"

Five minutes later, Andrew sat down at the table opposite his old friend. "Mark. We need to talk."

Mark was grading the short essays of his students. He was almost done. "Can this wait?"

"I think it's waited long enough," Andrew returned.

In the doorway beyond, Hector checked the corridor. "Linus isn't asleep yet."

"Are you expecting a disturbance?" Mark quipped.

"You said it yourself the other day, that every time you have five minutes alone with Calliope, her brother _somehow_ manages to enter exactly thirty seconds before the opportune moment." Andrew picked up a stray essay. "This kid didn't misspell 'occasion.'"

"Yes, he did." Mark didn't even look up.

"No, I'm pretty sure that's the correct spelling."

"That's just because –" Mark plucked the paper out of his hands, "_you_ can't spell 'occasion,' either. Now seriously—"

"Yes, let's get down to business," Andrew nodded as Hector sat at the table with the two of them.

"I'm trying to finish this!"

"Put it aside for a minute."

"Why can't you wait?"

"Because you have been waiting long enough."

Mark rolled his eyes before responding. "This is about Calliope, isn't it?"

"Yes. It has been two weeks since she was let out of the hospital, and we had that whole blackmail fiasco, but things seem to be cleared up."

"Thank you, Andrew. I've missed having a calendar."

"That's two whole weeks," Hector said, "in which you could have _confessed_ to Calliope."

"Correction." Mark cut in. "That's two whole weeks that have been pleasant and peaceable for all concerned."

"Except for you."

Mark didn't answer, so Andrew went on. "This is eating you up. It's obvious to everyone except for her." No answer. "Why won't you just be honest?"

Very casually, Hector asked, "Why are you being such a coward?"

"I am _not_ a coward!" Mark snapped, looking up from his papers.

"Then why haven't you said anything?" Hector demanded.

"I – I'm – " he spluttered.

"Coward?" Hector offered.

"_Stop it!_" Mark's voice was too loud; he lowered it and kept his fists clenched on the table. "You have no idea how complicated this is. You're perfectly fine with each other. You're both wizards."

There was an awkward pause; Andrew and Hector shared a glance while Mark, scowling, drew a happy face and wrote "Nice!" alongside a particular sentence.

"You being a Muggle isn't…" Andrew started, but he couldn't finish.

"Important? Really? Because I'm starting to think that it is."

"Calliope doesn't think so."

"Are you sure, Andrew? Are you sure that deep down, she's not just – just tolerating me? That if I were to actually – _tell_ her – she wouldn't be disgusted or – or laugh?" the last word was a mumble on his part.

"Mark. Ask yourself, is Calliope the sort of woman who _would_ laugh?"

"No…" Before Andrew could say something else, he went on, "But it's not just laughing. That's just on the outside. The more time I spend here, the more I realize, there's just this difference between me and her. Even you, Andrew, you've been a wizard so long I'm not sure you get it, what it feels like to be so completely powerless. If you took away magic, there's still the fact that she's old money, upper-class…"

"Not going to deny it," Hector commented.

"… and I'm, what? A teacher? Third-generation American? Anyway, I'm not ready yet."

"You're a red-blooded, full-grown male, aren't you?" Andrew tilted his head to the side while Hector went to the kitchen. "How are you not ready yet?"

"I haven't yet completed my quest."

"… _What_?"

"The Quest. My task. My honor."

"You've lost me."

"Look. I promised Linus that I would protect Calliope. I broke that promise when I turned down Turpentine's blackmail."

"I'm well aware. I thought she'd forgiven you for it."

"Yes, she has. But, that doesn't change the fact that I broke my word. My word, my honor, that was all I had left, really. She only forgave me after I accepted the Agnes Stidolph job. This is like – you know in the old days, chivalry and knights, if a knight breaks his code of honor he must atone for it. Until he does that, he is unworthy to approach his fair lady. I broke my word, Calliope is my damsel fair—"

"Damsel? Really?" Hector asked, coming back.

"Roll with it, but I can't go on a quest to slay a dragon – can I?"

"_No_," the wizards said together.

"Is it –"

"No."

"But –"

"_No_."

"What are they, endangered?"

"And insanely dangerous, _yes_," Hector answered. "Go on with your knighthood story."

"Well, then, fine, because I can't slay a dragon I'm doing the one quest I really know – teaching. Until I have fulfilled this task, regained my honor, and dreamed the impossible dream, I can't approach her as a –" he blushed, and looked down at his little essays again, "a lover. I have nothing else to offer."

Andrew leaned back, regarding Mark skeptically. "You know what I just heard? 'I am I, Don Quixote, the man of La Mancha, and _completely_ out of touch with reality.'"

"It's Lord of La Mancha."

"You're not helping your case."

"Fine. Reality? I'll try and connect with reality, where I spend my days shuttling between a swanky hotel incongruously attached to an embassy, and a school where I teach werewolves. It doesn't matter anyway because I'm only awaiting my trail for having broken out of jail and into a wizard's house, where if I'm charged guilty I can have my memories of the past month erased, and maybe have my soul sucked out if I'm _really_ unlucky. I should just ask her out, even though she's still recovering from having god-knows-what experiments done on her by a scumbag who is still at large, and reality seems pretty unrealistic nowadays, don't you think? Honestly, Prydain, Middle-Earth, La Mancha, whatever you want to call it, they make just as much sense. By following them I _may_ be able to hold my ground as the only person in this whole scheme who can't do magic!"

"Okay, I understand –"

"Do you, Andrew? Really? Or are you just saying that?"

"First. Mark. Breathe. Inhale – exhale – that's good. Now, honor? How will you even measure that? It's so subjective, you're practically just stalling for time."

"I will know when I'm ready."

"_Stalling_."

"So what you're saying is," Hector mused, "You feel powerless."

"Yes. When did this become psychotherapy hour?"

"I think it's the tea. Do you want some tea?"

"Sure."

"All right. If you feel so powerless and stranded, then what do you have to lose?"

"What do I have to lose? Only _her_."

"Mark…" Andrew said warningly.

"She _will_ look at me differently when I tell her. If it's one-sided, where does that leave us? Everything will be changed – I may lose the best thing I have going for me right now: her friendship. On the off-chance that she's in love with an overdramatic Muggle?" He let the question hang in the air. "Look. We're all kind of worked up right now. Let me finish correcting these."

For a while there was silence, as Mark read over the last three essays, and Hector had another cup of tea, and Andrew another cup of decaf. Finally Mark sat up with a sigh. As he filed the papers away he said, slowly, "Okay. You know, this last month has been rough. I've only just gotten to a place with Calliope where we're really balanced, almost – I know she's a witch, we can be open about it, actually honest. I don't want to risk losing this friendship on the off-chance that she loves me."

"But this is hurting you," Andrew pressed.

"It's better than there being an ocean of awkward between us because I – whatever. She doesn't need a lovesick Muggle right now. She needs a friend."

"What if love _is_ what she needs, Dr. Printzen?" Hector offered.

Mark made no answer.

Hector took another sip of tea. "If you're nervous about telling her in the first place, I can get really drunk and start talking about how you're mad for her and all—"

Mark laid his face down on the table. "I said I was sorry, what do you want, penance?"

"Sit up, boy." Andrew clapped him on the back. "This stalling is not going to work. And I think you're underestimating her ability to handle this situation – and your own. After all, man… " he took a deep breath. "I know something about love. You've got to want it bad. If that girl's got into your blood… Go out and get her."

"Are you…"

"Tell her that you're never gonna leave her. Tell her that you're always gonna love her. Tell her, tell her, tell her – of course at the opportune moment."

Mark glared at Hector shrewdly.

Hector stopped smiling at Andrew to say "What?"

"I'm just wondering if you're going to start doing backup."

"Backup?"

"Yes. This is a song."

"Oh…" Hector looked put out. "I though he was just being poetic."

"You two stop changing the subject, I'm trying to croon here," Andrew interrupted, flustered. "And the point still stands! If you want her to be…" and here he really did start crooning, "Always by your side, take her hand tonight, swallow your foolish pride, and tell her, that you're never gonna leave her…"

"I'm putting my papers away now. You're reminding me that, unlike you, I don't have a good singing voice, so even serenading is out of the question."

"Which is a shame," Hector said, following Mark to his small "work station" (where his briefcase and students' folders lived), "because she loves music."

Then one of the bedroom doors opened. Linus, dressed to go out, appeared. "What are you three doing up?"

"Working," Mark answered promptly, "And giving me unwanted love advice."

"You want my advice? All three go to bed, especially whoever was singing unless he wants a Limerick Hex."

"I've been trying to convince them of that all night," Mark agreed. "Where are you going at this hour?"

"None of your business," Linus said coolly as he walked out the door to the flat.

Linus clutched a letter in his hand – a late-night owl, just arrived. It had an Obliviator's enchantment on it for security. In Amity's handwriting, it just had an address and the words _Urgent_.

Linus pushed open the door to the little Muggle bar. He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. A small blonde woman was sitting by herself in a booth and looking extremely despondent. As Linus approached a couple of men walked past and chirped, "Hey, little bird, mind if I warm up your nest?"

"Back off, she's with me," Linus scowled at them (they scowled back) and sat opposite Amity. "Forget about them. What's wrong?"

Amity smiled at him. She had her notebook out on the table and pushed it out towards him. He read,

_Hello, Linus. Thank you for meeting me. Please perform Leglimency on me_. _No 'buts_.' _And don't ask me to talk. And YES, I'm sure_.

He looked at her. "Good job predicting my responses."

She nodded and took a last sip of her drink, then leaned forward. She nodded, and then frowned as Linus hesitated.

"All right, all right… er, I apologize, Amity, for anything that I shouldn't see. _Legilimens_."

A few minutes later, someone nearby commented, "Look at that couple, just staring into each other's eyes like that! Did you ever see anyone so in love?"

Linus found himself scanning Amity's memories of that day, but only the same few moments – arriving at the grocery store and being in the grocery store and then calling up her younger siblings to return home. At first it was just the same few memories on a loop, but there was something between them – something _hidden_. It had been hidden well, but Linus was an Obliviator and he could see the cracks and seams. And he could feel Amity's consciousness working with his, forcing the memory to be shown, pushing it through, pushing – until on a wave of _anger_ it suddenly broke over. Linus was for a minute overwhelmed, feeling as frightened and shocked as if Amity had begun to attack him, and then he realized the anger was not directed at him. It was directed at this memory.

The fog cleared and Linus was able to understand, watch the memory as it unfolded.

_In her mind's eye, Amity was in the grocery store, and had just sent her younger brothers to look for milk, macaroni and cheese, and tissue paper. She had only just turned around, alone with the cart, when Turpin Rowle was standing at her elbow. _

"_Hello, Amity," he said with a smile. _

_Amity reached for her wand, but his wand was already out._

"_Ah-ah-ah," he shook his head. "Wouldn't want to make a scene now, would we? Not in front of the Muggles.s" He lowered his wand but didn't change his toothy smile. "So nice to run into you, do you have a moment to chat?" _

_Amity's hand had just closed on her wand, and she kept it there but did not make any other movements. "Of course I do."_

"_You must have lots of spare time, since leaving the office."_

"_I make do." She cleared her throat._

"_How is your throat doing?"_

"_Go to hell," Amity hissed._

"_Such sweet little boys, your brothers," Turpin began. "Shouldn't they still be in Hogwarts?" _

_Amity's eyes widened. "Mum and Dad and I are teaching them at home. It's safer there." _

"_Of course it is. Mirth and Philip must miss his school very much…and then what's the other one's name, Caritas? What strange names your family has…"_

"_Turpin, if you're trying to threaten me let me tell you that you will be ribbons before you lay a hand on my kids." _

"_Who said anything about threatening?" Turpin's smile was as innocent as could be. "I was just observing. Do you mind if I ask you something?" _

_Amity said nothing, but stared down at the end of the aisle, waiting, wishing that one of her brothers would appear so that –_

"_How is Linus doing?" _

_She broke her staring and looked at him. "He's… fine…" she managed to say._

"_Come on, now, you know that I won't buy _that_. I have a source telling me all I need to know about Calliope Ollivander, but my source is practically silent on Linus. Tell me. How is he? How is he no longer himself? How does the loss of Benedicte affect him? Tell me, Amity."_

"_Or what? You'll torture me in the grocery store?" _

_Turpin put a hand on her dark blonde hair, and leaned close. "I'm not alone here either, Amity. I have a brother, too, who is keeping an eye on your brothers. He can take them away and give them to Fenrir Greyback, if you like. If you want that, just let me know and I'll never seek you out again. Or you could tell me about Linus Ollivander…" _

_Amity trembled, her mouth curling in rage and her eyes filling with tears. _

"_Please, Amity, just make this easier on everyone… _Tell me." _There was coercion in his words, enough to push Amity's already trembling resolve. _

_She said flatly, "Linus Ollivander has suffered cognitive damage from the modification of his sister, Benedicte's, memory. His damage is in its way as bad as Calliope's, maybe worse. He suffers chronic insomnia – night terrors when he does sleep – and is now less rational than he used to be. He constantly insists he's fine, though anyone with two eyes can tell he doesn't sleep enough. And…" She swallowed and closed her eyes as Turpin's grip on her hair tightened. "I think that he can't make new relationships as easily as he should be able to. I think he's… he's… he's lost some other capacities…"_

"_Like what?" _

_Amity mumbled something incoherent. _

"What_, Miss Tweak? Clarity and coherence are of the utmost in any report…"_

"_R-romantically, I think, Linus – Mr. Ollivander's capacity – ability – to start or recognize romance is, I think… hindered… I don't know…"_

"Romantically_?" Turpin repeated with exaggerated shock. "Why, you don't say! And how came you to notice that? So _clinical_ of you! Or, did little Amity Tweak actually think that the handsome, haughty Linus Ollivander might fancy her?_"

Amity's hand whipped out her wand and she pointed it at him, slipping out of his grasp and glaring at him furiously. "Do you have any other questions, Turpin? Any others? If not then give me back my brothers and get the hell out of my sight!"

"_Oh, I've hit a nerve," he muttered. "No, I have no other questions. You've been most helpful, Miss Tweak. Observant and sharp as always. I thank you. And of course – " he muttered a word and Amity clutched at her throat and made a choked gasp, "You'll oblige me by not _talking_ about this to anyone." _

He put his wand away and walked out of the aisle, just as her three brothers ran into it from the other end, and asked Amity if this was the right brand of tissues or should they get the ones on special, why was she pulling them so hard, what was the hurry…?

Linus gasped as he disconnected the memory. At once all of his senses awoke again: the corny Muggle song playing over the radio, the smell of cigarette smoke, the cheap yellow lighting mixing with the changing flickers of the street. Amity was looking down, cleaning off her glasses. Linus brushed his hair out of his eyes, feeling quite angry and confused about what to do next.

"I'll, um, I guess I maybe should order, well, a drink…" he looked up and saw that Amity's shoulders were trembling. '_Good god, Ollivander, it's not right to just let a girl cry like that_,' he thought. Tentatively he got up, sat next to her, and put his arm around her. "Hey, don't worry, he's gone now. He's gone. I'm sorry. Amity, I'm sorry."

He was a very awkward comforter, but she didn't seem to mind; she let herself be hugged for a minute, then pushed him away. She wrote on her notebook,

_As he left he cursed my throat again. My voice is almost gone. Again. _

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

She looked up at him, and abruptly he remembered the second to last thing Turpin had said to her. Linus jumped, retracting his arm and saying hastily, "Well! Your voice! God damn, I mean, Turpin, what a mean guy!" She looked at him deploringly. "Oh, god, Amity, uh…" Linus leaned his head on his hand, "Look, I… I don't… you're a great girl, but – " she smacked him with her notepad. "_Ow! _What was that for?"

_I don't want to talk about it_, she wrote fiercely. _It was __no big deal,__ T.R. is an arsehole. _

"Amity!"

She gave him an "It's true" look. She wrote, _I had to let you know. He's not stopped working, he's still got his eye trained on you and on Calliope_. _He said he has someone giving him news on Calliope. Do you have __any__ idea who that could be?_

"No, absolutely not. But thank you so much for telling me."

_I'm sorry I told him as much as I did_. _Very sorry._

"No, I understand, with your brothers on the line."

_I've told my parents: I'm moving out. I can't stay there while he targets them. I'm looking at apartments now – think I can house-sit for a friend in Surrey._

"Oh. Good. Can we still visit you there?"

_When I'm settled, yes_.

"Er… mind if I stay and have a drink?"

_Not at all. Please. Be my guest._


	17. A Little Cocktail Conversation

A Little Cocktail Conversation

Note: As a brief refresher note, let me remind you that Lyman Heckinger is the Daily Prophet Correspondent who has been (on-and-off) covering Mark's case; and Huo Quinn and Debra Martindale are old friends of Benedicte's from Hogwarts. I know it's been a while since I mentioned any of them.

This chapter, a bit like the one before (which featured the song "Tell Him," by the Exciters) has a lot of musical theater references. There's one _How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying_ tie-in, and Mark quotes a bit of "Putting It Together" from the musical _Sunday_ _in the Park with George_.

ooooo

There was a house.

A blue clapboard house with white trim, a wide front porch. It was an old-fashioned house – for America. The lawn was covered in scraggly hollyhock and honeysuckle, with thick juniper bushes shielding the house from the road. It was an autumn day in Massachusetts.

Home.

Mark took a deep breath and let it out. Everything had worked out. Everything would be fine. His mom's car was in the driveway, the trunk open, half-emptied of groceries. Mark took the porch steps, three at a time, and opened the front door. He passed through the achingly familiar rooms, the messes, the old carpets, the simplicity and happiness of the past seeping into him. Home. It felt he'd been away years and years. He just wanted to cry out "Mom! Dad! I'm home!" but didn't. He'd surprise them.

He just entered the kitchen as his mother stepped out. A bag of groceries sat on the table. Mark took the foodstuffs and started to put them away. He'd just put the salt into the cabinet where it had lived for thirty years, when he heard a shriek. He turned around. "Mom!"

Then there was a crash. His mother had dropped the bag she was holding, and the contents had tumbled over the floor.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that, here, let me get that – I almost called you Mum, can you believe it? Have I been in England too long, or what?" Everything was picked up, set on the counter. "Mom," he hugged her, "I am so glad to be home."

Short, sharp hits like hail – his mother was pushing him away. He looked at her in shock. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was absolutely white. She backed into the doorframe.

"Mom? Mom, what's the matter?"

"Who are you?" she whispered. "What are you doing here?"

"Mom – I haven't been away _that_ long." Her face did not change. "Mom – it's me, it's Mark." She began to tremble. She just shook her head, never once taking her eyes off of him.

"Mom, what's the matter?"

"You're – Mark?"

"Yes," he smiled through a growing sense of unease. "Mark Emory Printzen."

Her jaw fell. "And you were born –"

"November 25th. Your – your Thanksgiving baby," he muttered the old nickname.

"Oh my god – " she put a hand on his face, studying him now, "You – you're as old as he would be – you look like he would look –"

"I look like you and Dad," he said, "I look like myself. Mom, what's the matter?"

He heard a second car pull up in the driveway, and stop, turn off its engine. As the door opened his mother seemed to wake up from an enchantment. She broke away from Mark, hurried outside. "Fritz!" she yelled. "_Fritz!_"

"What is it?" Mark's father stepped out of his car and held his wife when she ran to him. "What is it, Jenny?" He looked up at Mark with confusion. "Who are you? Who is he," Mark heard him ask in a murmur.

"I'm your son!" Mark cried in exasperation. "Mark Printzen, son of Francis Printzen and Jane Sullivan, what is wrong here?"

"He says he's _Mark_," she said to her husband, "He looks like you, he has the right date, even Emory – even that's right…"

"Jenny…" Mark's father held his wife closely.

"But it's impossible," she went on; they were talking as if Mark wasn't there. "I believed it for a minute, but it can't be…"

"What's happened?" Mark insisted. "Oh, god – god – have your memories been modified? They've been modified! Where's Linus? We have to fix this, we can repair your…"

"_Shut up_!" his mother screamed. She faced Mark, her fists clenched. "Don't tell my memory is faulty, I remember that day – I remember the day that Mark was born – the most clearly – of all days – " her eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, and she broke down sobbing. Fritz Printzen went to her and held her again. Then he looked up at Mark.

"Our son, Mark Emory Printzen, was born the twenty-fifth of November… our Thanksgiving baby… at seven twenty-eight in the morning. He died – congenital lung defect – at a quarter past eleven p.m. that same day. We watched him die – we watched his little breaths stop –" tears choked him, too, until he clenched his jaw, much like Mark had in the past. "I don't know who you are, but how you would _dare_ to impersonate him is beyond me. Please, leave. And don't come near us again."

"But – "

"Leave," Mark's mother whispered.

How could he disobey his mother?

He stopped looking at the man and woman in their grief; he let the house slip away. In a daze, he turned around. He walked down the driveway, and when he reached the open road, he stopped and looked up and down the empty street. Where was he to go?

He closed his eyes. "I'm your son. Please, I'm your son."

"Our son is dead," and he didn't know who had said it, whether it was his mother or father or both, but the phrase sunk into him, so deep that when he breathed the breath was wrong, and he choked, he was going to die, just like he'd died twenty-six years ago – he had to open his eyes – he was –

He opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back in the Embassy. It had been a dream. The sun wasn't even up yet.

"Andrew."

In the other bed, Andrew stirred. "Mmfrg?"

"We need to get our students in touch with their parents again."

"Pflfgg. Yeah."

"Do you hear me, Andrew? Their parents."

"What? But – the thing – the Werewolf Enrollment… Registry… wasn't there a law?"

"They can't lose that connection. Once that falls apart, the center cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…"

"Mark, it's five in the morning. Go back to sleep."

But wakefulness had fully immersed Mark by now. He lay in bed until the world felt vaguely sensible again, muttering, "Things fall apart… the center cannot hold… and everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned…"

ooo

Outside the snug walls of the Embassy, the war waged on. Disappearances, vandalism, arson, Muggles being kidnapped and discovered, miles away, babbling madly. Werewolf attacks. People started fewer conversations by chance. All conversations between friends started with security questions. At the Ministry, security checkpoints were set up, though their effectiveness was in doubt. As the weather turned wetter and colder, there were fewer outings, soirées, fewer chances to get together and laugh.

But they _did_ happen. One such gathering was a birthday party at the house of Huo Quinn. A few close friends were invited – mostly his wife's. It was her birthday, after all. But Quinn's old school chum, Debra Martindale, showed up too. After dinner, Debra and Quinn met in the kitchen to share drinks and talk.

Quinn eventually brought up, "So, I hear you have a new play that's opened up to rave reviews."

Debra preened herself like a duchess. "Oh, yes, it's a trying life."

"You barely have time to answer your owls, it seems."

She smiled awkwardly. "Sorry… well, just take a look at my planner!" she pulled it out of her purse and showed it to him. "See?"

He scanned the square days covered over with tiny scribbles and a few angry faces, and pointed to the 20th of September. "Why is 'Linus' Birthday' written there?"

Debra frowned. "You know, I don't really remember. I think I must have written that a while ago. Name rings a bell, though."

"Yes – there was someone, Linus Owens or Linus Van Dort, on the news –"

"Ollivander?"

"Yes! That's it!"

Debra took a drink, "But how do I know his birthday?"

"Weird." Quinn agreed. "Look at this. On our family calendar, I put a star on the day. I don't recall why." He and Debra shrugged at each other.

"Maybe I should send him something. Tickets to the show?" she suggested.

"Free publicity, at any rate." He sighed. "I tried to remember, I think it was some kid we knew, and every year we'd go to his birthday party and give him a present…"

"Little kid? Dorky? Glasses?"

"Yeah. But why?"

"I don't know. And he has a baby sister."

"I don't remember that."

"Well, I'll send him something anyway. Everybody likes musicals, right?"

Quinn bit his tongue on making a further comment, and didn't mention the odd photograph of him and Debra that had sat on a bookshelf – the two of them were interrupted by an unmoving, completely dead image of a black-haired girl he didn't know.

Elsewhere, a few days later…

"Linus?"

He jumped. It was very early morning. Linus had been sitting by the window, watching the sunrise. He turned to see his sister approaching. "What? Why are you up so early?"

"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

"Oh. Of course."

She settled in opposite him on the sill, smiling. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Shrimp." he smiled back.

"Any owls yet?"

"No – it's only three in the morning."

"They usually come earlier."

"In the summer, maybe. But September is all about autumn setting in. Deliveries become harder…"

"What about Christmas?"

"Christmas is special, everyone knows that."

"Right. Well, here's your present from me." She held out two box with a blue ribbon tying them together.

Linus opened the first. "A new inkwell, in – " he squinted, "Payne's Grey! Thank you."

"Well, for all the letters you've been writing lately."

He opened the second. "And… sugar quills."

"For writing." She kept a straight face.

"Don't you think I'm a little old for these? And you, too?"

"For sugar quills? Never. Fie, fie. Hey –" she looked out the window. "Is that an owl?" It was; he lifted the sash and let it in. A small owl, carrying an envelope labeled to Linus.

He opened it. "Huh."

"What is it?"

"Tickets. For 'The Little Mermaid.' From someone named Debra Martindale."

"That's nice of her, but – why does that name sound familiar?"

"Do you remember her?"

"No… wait… it says something else."

"It says, 'From Quinn and Debra.'"

"Oh! Quinn and Debra – those names together – they were friends. Benedicte's friends."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And they would visit a couple times a year – and every birthday, yours and mine, they'd send us presents. They came with us to the seashore, once."

Linus' face was dull. "I don't remember."

"And they shouldn't, either – but hold on a minute. What if the Charm didn't work on them? What if they still have memories? We have to talk to them! Otherwise why would they –"

"They don't, Shrimp," he interrupted. "The note is as vague as can be. It was just a routine, tradition. I'm a forgotten friend that they send cards to out of obligation. Debra Martindale is the director of this play, this is an easy, thoughtless gift." As he got up and asked if his sister wanted coffee, Calliope muttered, "But we _are_ a theatergoing family – they _did_ send it to you. There must be something left…."

She looked at the handwriting in the note, and, half-imagining, she fancied together a face to go with the name Debra Martindale, with a long nose and a mop of brown curls, and Quinn, Quinn was…

"Calliope?"

She snapped out of it. Those weren't imaginings, they were memories. Not hers.

She stood up. "I'm going to practice cello."

"But it's three in the–"

"I'll put a Silencing Charm on it, I need this." And she went to her cello and practiced until both of her hands were stiff and the boys were all awake; she lost herself in 18th century melodies until the memories that weren't hers had faded. When she came out of her room, she turned down Linus' invitation to accompany him.

"You've just got to find someone else to take. Come on, Linus, if the mere mention of the director set me off imagine what going to the play would do. What if I met her?"

"What are the odds of that?"

"Too high. Go on, you and I are getting sick of each other anyway."

"_Shrimp!_"

"Well, we are. Why not take Amity? I'm sure she loves musicals. She seems the type."

Amity's tastes in theater, despite her appearance, tended in truth towards bloody black comedy written by Irish Muggles, but she did like musicals fine. She accepted the invitation, and Linus picked her up in time for dinner. When they got back a surprise party was unleashed, only not quite "unleashed" because it was already well underway, and honestly Linus had been pretty sure it was going to happen anyway. It was pleasant all the same.

The guest list _was_ somewhat surprising. A few old friends of Linus' from Hogwarts had been invited on short notice, and both the loyal and the curious had attended. Linus jumped into conversation with them at once about the old days and their careers.

Fleur Delacour had somehow found out about the party and invited herself, plus her fiancée Bill, a tall and handsome fellow with flaming red hair. One of Linus' friends, a latecomer, had exclaimed upon seeing Fleur, "A veela? Cor blimey, now I _know_ it's a party!"

… this remark had earned him a quick but incisive glare and an icy reception from Fleur and Bill (not to mention Calliope) all night. But the most surprising latecomer, coming in a bit after the veela-admirer, was Tess.

Calliope welcomed her stiffly. "I – er – don't remember inviting you…"

"Oh, don't worry, Hector did. Happy birthday, Cous."

All the evening Calliope kept an eye on Tess. Surprisingly, though, Tess did not incite a single argument, rub salt into any wounds, or even make any untoward political statements. Her first move (after making sure Hector was all right) was to approach Bill Weasley, hand extended. "Hey, would you happen to be related to Charlie Weasley? Knew it! It's the hair. Yep. Your brother's a great guy – I see him in Romania when I go looking for heartstrings." From that moment on Calliope breathed easy – until she remembered Fleur.

But to her surprise, Fleur did not shoot daggers out of her eyes at the apparent interloper. She shrugged with Calliope suggested it. "Oh, come now. Do you think Bill could possibly forget me so fast? _Ha!_ She is not even trying to charm him. She is like a brother. Honestly, _mon amie_, you think so badly of your cousin. At least she is not a veela."

Calliope had to admit, she was not. Fleur added, "Now tell that boy cousin of yours to stop glaring at me."

"Is he? Why—"

"Because Andrew has been flirting with me without pause. I can tell, you know."

"Can tell when men are flirting? Very sharp."

"Funny. No, I can tell when a man is gay."

Calliope almost spit out her drink and turned quickly to look at Tess, who had not even noticed, and was talking with Andrew. Then she remembered, she and Fleur were speaking in French. Why was she even worried?

Andrew, upon realizing that Tess was Hector's sister, doled out the charm. She put up with his brightness and vivacity with a few nods and a dry martini in hand. Hector stood by, saying nothing but hearing much.

When Andrew ran out of his normal chatter, Tess asked flatly, "So how exactly do you manage this?"

"Um… what do you mean?"

"Cushy situation, isn't it? A party in the Embassy, guests in the compound for months at a time, how's a government paper-pusher manage _that_?"

He shrugged and spread his arms. "What can I say? I just appealed to their best interests. You know, the old brotherhood of men thing. The Ambassador's a great guy, he gets it. Give to others and you shall receive"

"Brotherhood of men, huh?"

"Well, and women too. Sisterhood. Um, a fellowship, how's that?"

"Just a paper-pusher couldn't get this kind of treatment."

"What about a really charismatic paper-pusher?"

"You do more than just push whatever. Don't pretend you're just an all-American golden boy."

Hector took a big gulp of his water. "Oh, Tess! You and your consipiracy theories! Heh, yeah, Andrew, we know there's more behind the scenes. So good to see you both getting _along_!" he added with forceful emphasis.

Birthday cake provided a timely interruption. The party, Calliope calculated, was almost half over, and they had still avoided any major scuffles or spats. She decided she could risk breaking out the alcohol.

All seemed well. Even Mark was enjoying himself…

She did a double take when she realized Mark was talking to Tess. There was a spasm of resentment – Tess had always made her cousin feel particularly stickish and plain, what was she _doing_ talking to Mark – wait. Mark was a Muggle. Tess could have no designs on him whatsoever, and then, why was she jealous of Mark in the first place? She tried to shake off the idea and ignore them.

In fact she need not have worried in the slightest. If Tess had been trying to be charming, Mark would have been completely immune (as he was all-but-entirely cold to Fleur's charms), but as it was she had only come over to ask, half-flippantly, "So. Teaching werewolves. How's that working out for you?"

"Quite well." He sipped his drink with a defensive air. "Thanks."

"Just 'well'? Tell me, are you supplied with garlic, lemons, and some holy symbols?"

"No. And I know those are vampire's weaknesses, not werewolves."

She nodded in acknowledgment. "All right. What about some nice – what do you call 'em – "Dennis" balls to play fetch?"

"I hate to burst your bubble, Miss Gibbs –" '_How can she and Hector be related?_' – "—but I'm interacting with my students as people, not as monsters."

"Teenagers, right?"

"Some of them."

"Seem pretty monstrous to me."

"You haven't even _met_ them!"

"I remember how I was as a teen. A right nightmare."

He chuckled in response.

"What's so funny?"

"I think you and a particular student of mine might actually hit it off."

"What, you trying to talk me into visiting?"

"Well…"

"Not gonna happen. Don't get me wrong, noble gesture and all – all my chums who work with magical creatures say so – but it's clear no one is even taking you seriously."

Mark frowned and swirled the glass in his hand as if willing it to become a little more alcoholic. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. A Muggle teaching werewolves? It sounds like the lead-up to a joke. You're the only person they could get to teach 'em, and it's the only thing anyone could think of doing with you. Is that Firewhiskey over there?"

What she said rankled deep with Mark. They festered, even after the party was over and the normal tedium of their lives had resumed. So, the next time Lyman Heckinger, the journalist, came around to ask for an interview, he was not turned away. In fact, he was invited to the school to observe the facilities, teaching in action, and the quality of services provided for transformations. (He ended up only doing the interview.) Andrew, when he learned about this, put his foot down. "What are you _doing_?"

"Well, I'm in the papers enough that I think a bit of positive press won't hurt," Mark explained. This was a few days after Linus' party, during recess, and Lyman Heckinger had not yet arrived.

"Excuse me, but on behalf of the Embassy, you're crazy! You're flying in the face of all that we have tried to do for you!"

"No, Andrew, I'm supplementing it. I appreciate what the Embassy has done more than I can say. But my image, and by extension that of the school, could use some serious buffering."

"Mark –"

"Look, it's not like I'm compromising my own safety here, am I?"

Andrew gave a frustrated smile as he rubbed his forehead. "After teaching little werewolves, I think everything will seem safe to you."

"And I'm not telling them anything they don't already know. My name's Mark Printzen. I teach werewolves. I'm a Muggle. I'm just taking my reputation and that of my students into my own hands."

"Out of the control of the Embassy!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm supposed to be controlled."

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean, reputation and the news media have a way of getting out of control."

"I _know_. But remember, 'Dot by dot, building up the image – shot by shot, keeping at a distance doesn't pay!'"

"Is that another musical?"

"Yes. 'Still, if you remember your objective, not give all your privacy away –'"

"Mark. Just because it rhymes doesn't make it true."

"Admit it, you enjoy it. 'A little bit of hype can be effective, long as you can keep it in perspective.'"

"I'm enjoying feeling straighter than you."

"Anyway, I know what I'm doing. Now you just manage the kids for one chapter of 'Lord of the Flies' and I'll handle Lyman, we'll be done in fifteen minutes, lickety-split." Mark began to head out the door, but felt himself stopped, like a marionette string had been jerked back on his spine. He turned. Andrew had his wand out, and was saying, with a slightly impatient expression, "Look. All I'm saying is, you might attract the wrong kind of attention, and get a 'solution' you didn't ask for."

"All right," Mark said as the spell released him, "I understand. I'm willing to take all the blame onto myself. I think it's worth the risks. And, Andrew?"

"Yes?"

Mark walked up to him and glared straight into his eyes. "Don't ever use your magic on me like that again. _Ever_."

Without another word, Mark left to tell Lyman Heckinger what it was like to teach werewolves.

ooo

It so happened that Andrew made a very good point. The interview garnered plenty of attention. It _did_ summon unwanted help – though considering Andrew's worst fears, it was positively benign. Just in time for Mark's fourth Moody Monday, the two of them arrived at the school a bit late – bad traffic – to find the main classroom entirely deserted.

"Betcha they're already in the music room," Mark explained. As he opened the door to it, he was surprised to see his students already sitting in a circle, and someone was reading to them. Someone wearing black.

"Who are you, sir?" Mark started.

Just before the man turned, he recognized the crooked shoulders.

"I do beg your pardon," said reverend Januarius Fell, "But we're trying to _read_."

Mark paused before asking (just as Januarius had turned back to the book). "Who let you in?"

"Ms. Brynach did. You can ask her yourself."

Mark looked over his students, most of whom seemed fairly bored with the reading material. Something was off – he started when he realized that the Muggles were seated in the back, furthest from the preacher. "So she gave you permission to take over my classroom…"

"_Your_ classroom? I thought you were a temporary volunteer."

"I still have more right than you – just coming in here to read – what was it again?"

"The Bible."

'_Of course_.' "Chapter and verse?"

"A reading from the first letter of St. Philomena to the Atlanteans."

That left the Muggle speechless, until Andrew said, "Gentlemen! May I be introduced, please?"

If Januarius Fell thought that the use of the word "Gentleman" to describe Mark was ill-fitting he gave no outward sign. He nodded and told Andrew his name. Andrew started to say what a pleasure it was to meet him, when he spluttered.

"So you've heard of me." Fell seemed a bit satisfied with that.

"Only a little?" Andrew smiled falsely.

"Are you also a Muggle?"

"I'm a Muggle-born wizard."

Mark, meanwhile, was thinking fast. The reverend was trying to challenge his status as the alpha male. Andrew was trying to reconcile them – which might be possible, if his students had grown out of the pack mentality, but he wasn't sure and in any case it was an inestimable loss of face –

Mark put the best Alpha edge to his voice that he could. "As their teacher, may I please recommend that you leave now and schedule a later date for such studies?"

Januarius Fell took the hint. He and his sister left promptly. Mark though he had heard the last of the troublesome priest. But…

On September 14th, Hector suggested that he, Mark, and Calliope go out to lunch the next day. (Andrew had to deal with a long-distance Floo session about his mysterious job). The next morning, Linus invited himself along. Hector seemed a bit put off, but he did his best to hide it.

But he looked oddly shifty all the way to the pub of his choice – the Black Otter, a Muggle pub. And he still looked shifty as they entered and Calliope was explaining to Mark the difference between magic and Muggle pubs, and from a secluded booth someone was hailing Hector. But he stopped when he saw Mark.

Mark and Januarius glared at each other over the table.

Hector cleared his throat. "All right, I believe you all… er.. know each other?"

ooooo

I don't believe I've yet shared my dream cast list for my characters. I think about it from time to time… *cough understatement cough*

I've always thought that Bond girl Eva Green would be the perfect Calliope, though lately Rose Byrne could give her a run for her money. Mark's actor is very hard to pin down. Sometimes he's James Marsden (especially as he appeared in _Enchanted_), other times he's Rupert Evans, from _Hellboy_, who has the slight drawback of being British. When I want musical theater, though, he's definitely Danny Gurwin.

Peter Capaldi (from _In the Loop_) is my call to play Turpentine, and Carey Mulligan (though she may not be short enough) for Amity Tweak. And Linus went a long time without an actor. Then I watched _Sherlock_. And discovered Benedict Cumberbatch. He is, now, my official Linus. Sans goatee. Man don't need a goatee.


	18. The Black Otter

The Black Otter

The snatch of song that Calliope hums is from 'Spring Awakening.' You know that if I could I would make this entire thing a musical. And it would be glorious. It's the song "I Believe" in case you want to look it up later. I recommend it.

Not at all related to "I Believe" from 'The Book of Mormon.' But I recommend that one too.

And this chapter title is a reference to the cloak "The Black Mamba" from _Megamind_. Look it up. Youtube. It indicates the level of drama in this chapter. You've been warned.

ooooo

The Black Otter was a small, cheery pub with a hanging sign showing what appeared to be a midnight-colored otter giving someone else a high-five.

Jan folded up his menu. "I wondered why you asked me to meet you in a Muggle pub," he said to Hector.

"Because wizard pubs just don't have that same air of being wretched hives of scum and villainy," Mark answered with a twisted smile.

Januarius regarded him coolly. "I really don't care; after all, Hector is paying."

"Er… that's right." Hector shifted uncomfortably. "Please, everyone sit down."

They sat down, having ordered their drinks at the front counter. They all sat in awkward silence until the server brought a tray of drinks to them – three cups of tea, but Linus' newest accessory, strong black coffee, was present, as well as a Diet Coke, Mark's throwback to younger and happier days.

After they had drunk a bit, Hector began, "I've brought you here because we're all trying to work together towards a common goal, right? Educating the kids at Agnes Stidolph School. And furthermore, we all have a friend in common, right?"

"Who?" Linus asked.

Hector looked at him deploringly. "_Me!_" he said in a squeak. He cleared his throat, then said, "Me and Tess. We're all in the same network. And I want us to get along, because we _can_ get along and everyone would be happier that way."

"You've been talking with Andrew, haven't you?" Calliope asked.

Hector gave an angry huff. "Yes, but that's not the point, the point is, we can all get along, and we should, because there's enough fighting over stupid things."

"Are you calling my theology stupid?" Januarius asked.

"No, I'm saying things like Death Eater things, not your theology, not at all."

"Why isn't Tess here, then?" he pursued.

"Um…" Hector shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You know Tess. She's… not exactly… diplomatic… you know?"

"I know," Linus said sharply. "Can I get another coffee?" he asked the waitress.

"You just got that coffee five minutes ago," Calliope chided.

"So?"

"But – um, Jan, by the way, where's Julietta?" Hector asked the reverend. "I mean, I know she and Mark got along that one time…"

"I decided I would rather come here alone," Jan said coolly, "and she asked to spend the day at the school. She'll be reading aloud to the little ones, perhaps leading a prayer – I've told her to take it easy, and not exert herself."

ooo

Meanwhile, at the Werewolf Sanctuary…

"So, this is called a football."

Guadalupe held it out. Julietta eyed it fearfully.

"Go on, take it. Get a feel for it."

Julietta took the ball gingerly. "It's pretty heavy…"

"Come on, Miss Fell!" cried one of the younger children. They had been divided up into teams, evenly mixed between Muggle and magical. Somewhere along the line, Guadalupe had hijacked the lesson plan.

"And… and I'm supposed to kick it?"

"Yep."

Julietta began to stammer, "You know, my brother says I shouldn't really exert myself… my spine, you know…"

"Come _on_," The other girl cajoled. "You can't get hurt playing football. Right, folks?"

No answer.

"Go on, just drop it and kick it." Guadalupe smiled at Julietta. And it was the first real smile that the young witch had seen on the other girl's face in a good long time. That made this all worthwhile, right?

Right.

"Well… um… Here goes…"

ooo

Back to the café…

"Well, let's start with, what are our goals for the werewolves in the school?"

"Why isn't Andrew here?" Mark asked.

"Why do you all care about who's _not_ here?"

"He helps me teach. He should be in on this discussion."

"Andrew?" Januarius asked. "Is he the Muggle-born one?"

"Yes." Hector sighed. "Okay, honestly, I didn't bring him because I thought that Julietta would be coming."

"Oh?" Januarius tilted his head slightly to one side.

"Because that way, it would be kind of even, you know? Calliope was coming, so I left Andrew out, so it would be Mark and Calliope, and you and your sister, and I'd be neutral. Instead it's…"

"Linus just volunteered to come along." Calliope pointed out. "He doesn't really care. Do you, Linus?"

"Not really." Linus finished his second cup of coffee.

"Anyway, we're not here to play sides, like it's a round of Quidditch. What are your goals for the students?"

"Yes. That. Thank you for getting us back on track, Calliope. What do you want, Jan?"

Januarius thought. "I want help the students. I want them to recognize their humanity, and remind them of their basic dignity, and to lead them back to a healthier spiritual life." As Mark was about to have his say, "_Especially_, the students with magic, I want to retrieve them from the spiritual abyss they find themselves in, and help restore their faith in magic."

"Excuse me?" Mark started up. "Spiritual abyss? I have been reading them some _very_ uplifting and profound literature these past few weeks…"

"Yes, Muggle literature, isn't it? Won a few awards? I'm sure it's _wonderful_."

"It is!"

"I'm looking for literature that will at least uplift the minds of the wizards and witches in the group. While I'm sure that your "fairy-tales" are appropriate for the Muggle children, the wizards must not lose touch with their magical culture – despite all Muggle attempts to contaminate it."

"Muggle or not, these children are werewolves," Linus pointed out. "Even for the Muggle children, their lives are bound up in the magical world, now, too."

Calliope shivered. "Is it cold?"

"If you're so caught up with _contamination_, why then are you even exposing yourself to werewolves?" Mark asked.

"Lower your voice, please, we're in public," Januarius said coldly. "And give me credit: my sister, Julietta, was taught by a werewolf at Hogwarts. She didn't know what he was for most of the year, but she always said he was the best Defense teacher she'd ever had. I'm somewhat enlightened."

"Oh, I can tell," Mark snapped.

"Why do you persecute me for doing my Christian duty?"

"Because you're marginalizing my Muggle students in the name of faith, and you're trying to hijack my curriculum from me!"

"Listen. Do you know the parable of the Sower of Seeds?"

"Yes…" Mark was on the edge of his seat, fingers pulling at the tabletop.

"You don't know the wizard version. There are seeds that fall on the path, seeds that fall on shallow soil, seeds that are choked by thorns – and then there's the seeds that are just rotten to start with. Those seeds are Muggles. Why bother sowing them?"

"You – you –" Words, Mark didn't _have_ words for this anger, this sickening swoop of rage –

Out of nowhere, he felt calm. Mark stopped glaring at the salt shaker and sat up. He felt peaceful, in control of the situation. The best thing to do now was to get up and just walk away. So he did, heading towards the door.

"Mark, what are you doing?" Hector called.

"Mark, get back here," Calliope said at the same time. Before she could say something else, she felt a spell. She tried to speak and couldn't – a Silencing Charm was on her. Linus covered his mouth, trying to talk, until the moment when Mark closed the pub doors. The locks clicked shut.

Calliope started to get up, but another fell gripped her, locking her legs and forcing her to walk to the kitchen. She turned around, frightened, to see Linus following her. She pushed the kitchen door open in front of her, and saw the staff lying Stunned and tied on the floor.

She mouthed, "Linus –" She reached behind her to try and touch him –

But someone else grabbed her arm and yanked her back. She looked into a silver mask with a wide grin, under a black hood.

"_Linus!_" she screamed, without a sound, but Linus was already being taken away.

Back in the pub proper, Januarius took a long drink of his tea and said, "Well. Your cousins have de_light_ful manners, Hector, I'm sure. I can see where one can get some polish by hobknobbing with Muggles – _where did he get that wand_?"

Hector, about to hush him for speaking so loud, turned and saw. In front of the door, Mark stood with a wand in his hand.

He pointed it at the windows and the shutters rattled down, blocking the sun. He pointed it at the wait staff, one by one, and they fell, immobile. People began to scream. One man got up, looking fierce, but Mark just pointed the wand at his chest and smiled. The man sat down.

"Saints and martyrs," Januarius whispered. "He's doing magic."

"No…" Hector, more to keep him in his place than anything else, closed his hand on the minister's. "Don't move."

Mark was saying something now, but Hector tuned that out. Closing his eyes, he recalled the spells apparently done by the wand and focused on the feeling of magic, enchantment, a sense to which wizards were all but numb – there was something off – he could only witness another…

Half-fortunately, Mark appeared to magically upend an empty table from across the room, to screams and cries.

"I've got it!" Hector understood. The magic only _appeared_ to come from the wand in Mark's hand, but it was inert in the hands of a Muggle. The spell came from somewhere else – Mark was just being used as a puppet. "It's the Imperius Curse," he told Januarius as he stood up. "Mark! Fight it! Stop what you're doing!"

At the sound of his name, Mark's eyes cleared a little, but then he jolted back into place.

"Look, I know what you're doing!" Hector looked around the corners of the restaurant, heedless of the Muggles staring – their memories would be modified soon enough. "It's the Imperius Curse, you can stop it –"

With a _snap_ his right arm was yanked to the side, and pulled towards Mark, who looked like he was controlling it – Hector yelled, "Stop! Stop! _Aaaargh_!" He tried to pull away, and the spell twisted his arm further – He lost his balance and fell. As he tried to get up, he was struck with a Freezing Charm, and was left immobile in his agony.

"See? Exhibit A."

This was probably as good a time as any, he thought, to start listening to what Mark was saying…

"Take her to the kitchen!" the Death Eaters used a combination of magic and strength to restrain Calliope, and pull her to the back of the café. She was shoved to the ground, the hard tiles bruising her arms. They pinioned her on her back, tying her wrists and ankles to the floor with magical cords.

Sharp spells whirred past her ears, cutting noises, that only barely missed her skin – they were trying to scare her, and doing a good job of it, too, but she would not let that show.

'_Is this Turpentine is it Turpentine he's found me again oh god I must get out of here I must where is he?_'

Then, laughing raucously, one Death Eater got onto his knees and straddled her. He held a small, green, skull-shaped bottle in his hand, and grinned. "Open up, missy."

Linus was dragged to the pantry, a dark and closed room with a single chair in it. "Sit down." Cords bound his wrists to the chair.

"Look up." The voice was familiar… he _defied_ that voice… with a great effort of will, Linus forced himself to look at his hand..

"Who are you?" he asked.

"You do not recognize me," the voice snapped. "Now _look up_."

He obeyed, his eyelids forced open by some magic. His spectacles were taken from his face, and thrown aside. He heard them crack.

He was staring directly into a bright light. He could hear his own breathing. Then a head – and that was all he could discern – entered his field of vision.

"Don't blink."

If Linus could, he would have writhed. Something bright was hovering above him. It was a silver knife, and getting closer to his open eye.

It touched.

He screamed: it stung bitterly, and blinded him entirely.

But his eye was still whole.

"Now blink."

He did, and then he realized what was happening: a whole memory transplant.

This was the way to transfer raw memories into another person's mind: through their mouths, ears, or eyes, eyes being the most potent. The memory was condensed into a sharp shape – like a knife – and then applied topically.

All he saw was silver fog, and vertigo set in, as though he was falling.

'_That's all that's happening to me, a whole memory transplant, my god they could be transferring anything, amputation, murder, war, insanity, oh god help me, don't panic Linus, don't panic…_'

And the memory came into view, it steadied, he wasn't falling, he was standing, and he was in Hollywyck. Home. This wasn't a nightmare. Everything was fine. He was in the hallway – '_In someone else's memory, Linus, be careful, it's got to be a trap_…'

He heard a voice in the next room. A man's voice, angry… _"Look _at mewhen I'm talking to you!"

Linus hurried to open the door. And the door wouldn't open. And the voice was speaking again and he could almost recognize it, but it couldn't be… "What, I'm not good enough for you to look at? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed that you've come to feel so strongly about a filthy, slavering Muggle?"

Now the door opened, and Linus was in the library, and in front of him, on the couch, was Calliope. And Mark.

She was cowering – _cowering_ – on the couch, underneath him. He was going to – this could not be real, Mark would _not_ rape Calliope, she would overpower him, but here he was, loosening her hair and snarling, "Do you know why they always said to stay away from Muggles? Stay far, far away, because otherwise we'll stain you, soil you, wreck you, until you're no better than one of us." And she was begging him to stop, but he wouldn't, "I'll show you _exactly_ what that means, and you'll _never_ look down on me again—"

"Stop! _Mark_!"

And at that moment the memory dissolved, utterly vanished, sinking along Linus' optical nerves, all he saw was the lightbulb that he was still staring into, and the horror stayed with him, and that was impossible, no, it couldn't be…

"That is what I saw," said a voice, suddenly close at Linus' ear, "When I arrived at Hollywyck. That is what I interrupted. That is what that Mudbuck attempted to do to your sister, when you were gone."

"That's not true…"

"_You will believe it_."

"I'm going to fucking kill that bastard."

Linus heard himself say it. And a small part of him moaned, '_No, this isn't possible, we have to make inquiries, use logic!_' but that part was faded, small, and had no volition, whereas here he _had_ the volition to stand up, his wand was in his hand, he was going to find that Mudbuck and he was going to make him _pay_ for what he did, he was…

He was standing up?

Linus looked around, and remembered: he'd lost his glasses. He Summoned them, and put them on, squaring for a fight…

The room was empty.

He shivered.

He realized his vision through his right eye was blurred: the glass in the lens was almost shot. He used his wand to clear it entirely away, and then he heard a scream, and ran towards it, his wand out.

The Death Eater grabbed Calliope's forehead to force her head back, and then crammed the mouth of the bottle between her lips. Green potion dribbled down the sides of her chin, but the flow didn't let up: she had to keep swallowing or choke. And it was painfully bitter – like absinthe. She swallowed, and swallowed, and it didn't let up.

The flow finally lessened, and the bottle released: the bonds vanished, and she turned over onto her side, coughing and retching, before she screamed.

The Death Eater who had straddled her was standing up now, and pocketing the bottle, and he said "So should we wait until –"

"_No_," said the voice of the third Death Eater, "We _leave_ and return to…"

"Someone's coming!"

"_Time to go!_" And with three loud cracks, they all Disapparated just as Linus entered. He shot a red spell and it missed its target, hitting a pan with a loud _clang_ instead.

He swore loudly, looked around, and then saw his sister. "Callie! Are you all right? What did they do to you? Breathe, sis, breathe… "

He helped her to sit up. Her breathing evened out again. "What did they do?"

"They force-fed me… they forced me to drink this potion…"

"Do you know what it was?"

"I…" she paused, felt her forehead, then her stomach. "I don't… I mean, I just feel – stuffed. I don't know; I don't know."

"God…" Suddenly Linus hugged her, "I'm so sorry that I let that happen to you, I'm sorry," then broke off to look her in the eye. "I will _never_ let that happen to you again, I promise."

"What?" she said, distracted. "No, don't worry about that, you couldn't have prevented it. Help me up. We've got to save Mark."

"_Mark_?"

"Yes, Mark, he's a Muggle, he can't protect himself, we've got to _go_!"

ooo

Mark spoke, or was made to speak, in a stilted, pedantic tone that was entirely unlike him. "A wizard. Pure-blooded, if his mother can be believed. Wandmaker, even." Mark was walking towards him – so Hector could inspect the wand better. It was a fake, the kind that would turn into a rubber chicken if held by a real wizard. He'd seen the sort at that new shop in Diagon Alley. Of all the things to focus on…

If he strained, at the corner of his eye he could see a wizard in black – no, two robed figures, with wands out. Likely one controlling Mark, and one providing the special effects…

"He thinks," Mark went on, "That he's so much better than me, just because he's got a petrified family tree. But now look! _I_ have the upper hand – magic, a wand, and everyone's undivided attention. So—"

"_Devil!_" A salt shaker went flying through the air and hit Mark squarely on the temple. He gave a cry of pain, and the spell on Hector broke – apparently the alkaline offensive had startled the enchanters. Januarius Fell stood up, aiming with the pepper mill, his wand in his other hand.

Hector took the chance. He pointed his wand at the door and gasped, "_Alohomora_."

The door swung open.

With the freedom to leave came freedom of sound. Screams battered the air, with accusations of "_Demon!_" and "_Murder!_" The Muggles streamed out the door, keeping clear of Hector, Januarius, and Mark, and a few helped to carry out the immobile waiters.

Mark was reeling, clutching his head and swearing. The wand rolled across the floor and out of sight. It looked like the pain had broken the Curse on him.

Hector raised his wand – to do what, he didn't know, but whatever spell had seized his arm before came back with a vengeance. He screamed as his wand fell from his hand, his arm twisted further until –

_Crack_.

He screamed as his arm broke, and Januarius ran past him, though whether to help Mark, attack him, or apprehend the Death Eaters, Hector never found out. The witch who had been controlling Mark slashed at Januarius with her wand and yelled – something – and Januarius fell back with an "Uh."

Loud pops – the sound of people Disapparating – sounded in the back, and with two more, the perpetrators of the crime vanished, just as Linus and Calliope, in full control of their limbs, burst out of the door to the kitchens.

"Are they gone?" Linus demanded. No one answered.

"What just happened?" Mark asked. "Why did I get over here?" He closed the gap between him and Hector, slipping once, and took his uninjured arm. "Hey, are you all right? Say something!"

"God, it hurts – god –"

"We'll get you out of here, can you walk?"

"Yes – oh god, it hurts…"

Mark tried to help him up. "Just be careful, the floor's –" he looked around – "slippery…" and then he saw the blood.

It was spreading all over the floor, slowly, from one source. Januarius Fell was lying in his own blood, twitching and making horrible gurgling noises, with the word "Help" barely discernible. Gashes covered his torso, from the base of his neck to his armpit, across his chest, over his stomach to his groin. "Help"

"Oh god…" It was Calliope, come into sight from behind Mark. Her face was dirty and her eyes were wide. "Oh god…" But she was stepping towards him, slowly. She looked at Hector. "What spell was it? _Sectumsempera_?"

"Yes, it was, but what are you doing?" Hector asked, his voice high from his pain.

"I know… a technique… but I never practiced it… oh God, help me…" she knelt gingerly at his side, her skirt soaked at once.

She laid one hand on the gash on his neck. With her left hand, she jerked off the silver moon necklace she wore and laid it just on the cut. And Mark noticed, absurd among all the horror, that the hair around her face had been hacked off, roughly. He turned to Linus. "Where did the others go?"

"They're gone, that's what's important – I have to take care of the memories in the Muggles in the back…" He exited through the kitchen door.

A wailing filled the air, and Mark tried to remember where he'd heard it before – then he remembered: they were sirens. An ambulance was approaching. "Thank God. Calliope, are you… coming up with anything?"

"The sirens just broke my concentration entirely… Not that this was doing anything anyway," she sat back, gripping her necklace tightly. "I can't even remember the words to the incantation – are you two all –" She turned, then froze: Januarius had grabbed her hand.

"Tess! Don't go! Don't leave me, Tess."

She hesitated, looking at Mark and Hector, then bent over him and said gently, if uneasily, "It's okay, Jan. I won't leave you. I'll stay. I promise."

The door opened, and things began to happen very fast. A team of paramedics came in. One of them said, "Holy shit," when they saw Januarius, then they set to work lifting him up and putting him on a stretcher. All that time, he never let go of Calliope's hand.

Another took one look at Hector's arm and said, "You're coming with us." And Mark followed, since the man raised no protest. Into the ambulance, the doors were shut, and Calliope was sitting on one side of the preacher, Mark and Hector on the other.

There were two paramedics in there, both keeping anxious watch on Januarius' state.

"What exactly happened?" asked the closest paramedic.

Mark and Hector looked at each other blankly. Calliope muttered, "Turpentine was behind it somehow, I know it."

"Please, was it a robbery, or a fight that got out of hand? Anything?"

"I'm still trying to piece it together myself," Mark started. "Um. This man. Here…"

"He was attacked… with… um… a knife," Hector started.

Somewhat fortunately, Januarius began to recite the Nicene Creed, distracting everyone. "I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth… I believe in… of all that is seen and unseen…"

"Sir," said the closest paramedic, a plump Asian woman, "Please don't talk, you need to save your strength."

Calliope still didn't let go of his hand. Touching the gash at his neck, she began to sing softly, "I believe, I believe, I believe, oh I believe, there is love in heaven…" making it up as she went along, trying to make it an incantation. Focusing on the idea, '_Heal. Recover. Be restored. Knit together. Stop hurting. Be repaired. Heal_.'

Mark felt a stab of jealousy, watching her sing to Januarius Fell. And Mark wanted to punch himself.

The female paramedic shined a flashlight into the patient's eyes and said flatly, "He's going into shock. He's going to die unless he gets an emergency transplant."

"Of what?" Hector asked.

The paramedic blinked at him. "Of blood."

Hector, wisely, kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.

She asked, "Does anyone know this man's blood type?"

No one answered: Mark had gotten a strange look on his face, like an idea he didn't like had occurred to him and he was trying his best to silently circumvent it. Calliope continued to sing quietly.

Finally Hector ventured, "Pure-blood?"

"No one knows?" The paramedic asked. "Because that's going to take even more time to find a match, and time is what he does not—"

"I'll donate."

Mark had said it. Everyone looked at him. Calliope stopped singing. "What?"

"What are you—?" Hector started.

"Really? You're really volunteering?" The paramedic demanded.

"Yes, I am. I've given blood before, about – a half-dozen times. My blood type is O negative. I can donate to anyone."

"No," Calliope said at once.

"You realize," said the paramedic, "If you're mistaken or lying, you could kill this man."

"I know. But I'm not lying – and the American Red Cross calls me up often enough. They'd drain me dry if they could."

"But it'll hurt you!"

"No." Over Calliope's cry, the paramedic sized Mark up. "He doesn't look anemic, and he certainly weighs enough. All right. We'll do it, Mr. –"

"Printzen. And this man is Januarius Fell – and Hector Gibbs, and Calliope Ollivander."

"Okay. We'll need to see your ID, and his, as soon as possible."

"Not a problem." He lied.

The ambulance slowed and turned a corner. The wizards braced, but the paramedic said, "We're here."

The doors opened…

And now it was the witch and wizard's turn to be swept into a strange world, where people moved rapidly, shouting orders, using bizarre equipment, herding the lot of them into the emergency room. Hector was led away separately, and looked back with panic. Mark nodded, encouraging him, "Go on, it'll be fine."

Calliope stayed with Januarius and Mark, and watched as one nurse disinfected Januarius' wounds, and another prepared a needle and thread – they weren't going to _sew_ him back together, were they? And a third instructed Mark to sit on the next cot, roll up his sleeve, make a fist, good, then the nurse rubbed a sticky potion right on his elbow –

"Don't hurt him!" she cried, before she could think.

The nurses only glanced at her, but Mark said, "I've done this a dozen times before, Calliope, I'll be fine."

"Sit down," another nurse said. "You don't look so good yourself."

"I'm fine."

"No, sit, you're pale and shaky. That's a girl." Calliope obeyed; she really _was_ shaking. What a day…

She gasped when the needle actually punctured Mark's arm, and watched in morbid fascination as his blood was drawn from him and into a vein in the reverend. "I can't believe you're doing this," she muttered.

"Me neither," Mark answered, squeezing a red rubber ball the nurses had given him.

The sound of the ER, the clamminess of his hand, the fluorescent lights, and Mark's face and extended arm, all began to blur together. She heard the raucous laughter from before – what had they _fed_ her?

Turpentine was behind it somehow, but why had they left her behind? Was this to frighten her? To drive her to the hospital? Was he watching her even now? The touch of her clothes, the light, the noise, all became too much, overwhelming.

She stood up, swaying. "I think I'm feverish."

"What – oh, you look almost green!" Mark exclaimed.

A nurse glanced at her and put an ungloved hand – wonderfully cool – on her forehead.

"You're burning up," she said. "You'd better lie down. Were you injured in any way?"

She shook her head, and remembered that this was probably magically induced. "I'll just – go to – to the bathroom," she said quickly, and slipped out of the nurse's grasp, adding vaguely, "Take – care of Mark," because talking was becoming more trouble than it was worth.

"Miss! Come back here!"

But Calliope was gone, following the washroom signs and nearly doubled over as she moved, clutching her stomach. There was the bathroom. She ran into a stall, closing the door. She sat on the toilet, bent over, holding her head, feeling like she would throw up at any minute.

She waited, almost retched, and the room did swim once – all right, a few times – before the nausea passed. The fever broke. Though she was shivering and sweating, she was better.

She sat back up, pushing back her hair with her hands. "Well, that wasn't so –"

She stopped. She stared at her hands.

They were green.

Ooooo

Other notes: I am not a medical student, I don't know exactly how feasible Januarius' physical state is, talking and whatnot, but I hope that you are able to overlook that in favor of the plot.

Also, as I mentioned on my profile, I only just found out today that Mr. Ollivander's real name is Garrick, according to Pottermore. Well. This changes _quite_ a lot! But for my story, his name will remain Servaas, and his past the past that I have carved out for him.


	19. The Green Witch

The Green Witch

Aka, the chapter where I show off my inner color-nerd. And the chapter that is oddly humorous.

For what it's worth, yes, I am a big fan of the musical '_Wicked_,' and yes, I think Eden Espinosa would make a wonderful Calliope. I told you, if I could I would make this entire story a giant musical. It would be unspeakably fabulous. Happy December 2nd!

This chapter's title was taken indirectly from the title of the Susan Cooper novel _Green Witch_ which I should reread. _Power from the green witch, lost beneath the sea... all shall find the light at last, silver on the tree._

ooooo

A Muggle hospital, in the middle of London. Within, a swarm of activity. People dying. Women giving birth. Masked doctors performing surgeries. Anxious patients hearing life-changing news. Walking, wheeling, standing, lying, talking, thinking, living, dying, and giving and taking blood.

And alone in the bathroom, Calliope was green.

Yes, she was completely, vividly green. She reassembled herself and slowly left the stall. At first she kept an eye on the door – then she caught sight of her reflection – and stared. She approached the mirror, and touched her face.

Yep. Green.

She swallowed. "Okay. I'm hallucinating."

The door opened – before Calliope could react there was a scream.

Even after a month, she reached for a wand that wasn't there, and, devoid of other options, dashed back into the stall and locked the door. Maybe the woman would think _she_ was hallucinating. Morgana's wand, her _skin_ was _green_.

She tried to stay calm, but every glance at her hands was a reminder. She tried standing with her hands behind her back, but she realized that she even cast a green light back on the walls. Okay. This was _seriously_ weird.

But was this all that the potion did? And _why_?

It was a reference to that movie, wasn't it? _The Wizard of Oz_? That was probably the sole movie that most wizards knew at least a little of – at least the bits with the magical folk. The wizard was a complete sham, a Muggle puffing himself up for cheap power. The good witch was prim and pink and frilly and traveled by bubble and shrill music. And the witch who actually _acted_ like one – wore a sensible robe, pointed hat, and traveled by broomstick – was wicked and cackled and had vivid green skin. She also melted when splashed with water.

Calliope eyed the toilet apprehensively, a cold fear growing in her. How true to the film _was_ this potion? And was there anything _else_ that could melt her?

She had to get to St. Mungo's. She delicately hitched up her long, dripping-wet skirt and prepared to Apparate –

And leave them behind?

She stopped. She couldn't leave Mark and Januarius, not to mention Hector. She couldn't stay near this water. She couldn't be seen. She couldn't stay here; she would never know what happened to the men, and what if the woman who saw her raised an alarm?

She leaned against the stall door and examined her emerald hands. "If I only had a disguise…"

ooo

"Lift up your arm straight in the air, and hold this bandage in place. That's right."

Mark complied, but he reflected, '_I could say no, if I wanted._' God, it was a relief to not have that hampering haze on his mind… though it had felt so calming…

'_That must have been that Unforgivable Curse I read about_,' he thought, '_Imperius. So that's what it feels like_.' He wondered just how much control it granted over mind and body….

The nurse returned and bandaged his arm properly. They'd run the tests: he was not iron deficient, and yes, he was O Negative. And a good thing, too – they'd sampled Januarius' blood, and it was the same. He was lucky, they'd said, that a match was willing and able to volunteer at once. They said Mark had almost certainly saved his life.

When they asked what Mark's relationship to the reverend was, he'd answered, "Friend of a friend."

Speaking of which…

"What happened to the people I came in with?"

"Um…" the nurse looked around. "I don't know. A tall brunette woman and a blond man with a hurt wrist, right?"

"That's right."

"You sit here and just eat some cookies, okay, while I go check. Take it easy."

Mark took a cookie and nibbled it pensively. He looked again at Januarius. He was asleep now, but his face was still pained. Looking at him, Mark was able to think about him detachedly. He'd been a teenager once, a little boy, a baby. He'd had sleepless nights, and epiphanies, and dreads. And though he didn't think Muggles had souls, he was still human. Mark felt rather kindly towards him… for once.

"Sir! I found your friend."

"Oh?" Mark turned towards the returning nurse. "Which one?"

"The man, and maybe you'd better talk to him. He seems kind of panicked…"

"People are looking pretty panicked in general," Mark observed, getting up and looking around.

"Oh, that's some – uproar this woman started. Said she saw… I honestly don't know. But follow me. Finish that cookie."

They found Hector outside of surgery. He was still in his own clothes, and cradled his arm in a temporary sling, and was backed against the wall, retreating from the nurse – when he saw Mark he exclaimed "Thank god! Mark, tell them I don't want an operation, tell them!"

"Hector," Mark said when he was a bit closer, and they were off to one side, "don't be stupid, you have to have your bone set. Doesn't it hurt?"

"No, actually," Hector said as they ducked into a side room, pleading privacy. "Someone poked a needle in my arm when I got here – and I didn't want _that_ either – but it stopped the pain so I'm fine."

"It'll wear off. You can't keep denying surgery. And the bone will heal crooked."

"I'll get it fixed at St. Mungo's."

"When? When will we get out of here? Look, setting the bone won't hurt –"

"I don't want to!"

"Don't be a baby, Hector…"

"Please, this place is so strange, it absolutely freaks me out."

Mark laughed at that, he couldn't help it.

"I'm being serious! I have no identification, no idea what's going on, and I hate the thought of being operated on in this sad Muggle excuse for a hospital—oh my god I'm sorry I didn't –"

Mark's face had grown hard. "You know what? You're on your own. I'm going to find Calliope."

"Wait!" he cried as the other man turned to go. "Don't leave, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry! Look, just, please tell them I don't want surgery."

In the doorframe, he turned around. "Tell them yourself! I'm not your translator."

And he stormed out, trying to retrace his steps to the E.R. When he found it, Fell was gone – probably moved to another room. But a janitor silently worked past Mark, mopping up a line of blood.

"Wait!" Mark stopped him. "That blood – where does it lead to?"

"Well," the janitor adjusted his cap, "I've cleaned it up from here to the door yonder –" he nodded to the door where Mark had entered, "and the ladies' room, and here. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Of course, sir." Mark stepped aside, and turned around, '_Don't be conspicuous, you're just a normal guy in a Muggle hospital_…'

A Muggle hospital! What a difference! For the first time in months, he was entirely surrounded by Muggles – '_My own kind_,' he couldn't help thinking. There was no magic, no inherent condescension. The world he knew, just as full of amazing people and worthwhile causes – and no magic.

He didn't dwell on it, though – or he tried not to. He followed the janitor's guide, trying to imagine where Calliope might have gone. Her skirt must have dripped the blood – that was a lot of blood – and she'd gotten sick. Now would she actually seek help, or be stubborn like Hector? And where was the women's restroom, anyway?

'_To what has my life fallen, that these are the questions I ask myself…_'

He bumped into a doctor in scrubs, walking very fast. He said sorry and half-turned as he did – to see a fall of long black hair under the surgical cap. He stopped.

"Calliope."

She stopped. Half-turned. Saw him. "How did you know it was me?" It was a good question: she had a surgical mask covering her lower face, and a giant pair of sunglasses covering the upper half, and then the cap on her forehead.

"Your hair."

She sounded indignant. "I am _not_ the only person here with long black hair!"

"No, but you _are_ the only person here who doesn't realize that a doctor in scrubs _never_ has their hair loose. Why are you…" He took in her entire outfit. She was in full scrubs, long sleeves and trousers, complete with gloves, but with her normal turtleneck, shoes, and socks on underneath. "Why are you in scrubs?"

"What are scrubs?"

'Those things you're wearing."

"Oh. I found them."

"Uh-huh. And why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"These? I nicked them from a purse."

"You hardened criminal."

"It's a cloudy day, no one will miss them."

"But that's _how_. I'm asking, _why_."

"It's a disguise. I wanted to find you."

"You stick out like a sore thumb! You're lucky I was the first person to comment on your hair."

"Oh, it can't be _that_ big a deal."

"Yes, it is."

"Well, point is, I found you."

"Calliope, _I_ found _you_."

"Trifles. Now we'll find Hector, Mr. Fell, and leave."

"Hector's arm is broken and not set."

"We'll take him to St. Mungo's."

"And I'm angry with him right now."

"That's your problem."

"Januarius is unconscious and I don't know where."

"Well, that _is_ a problem."

"And he probably shouldn't be moved considering how much blood he lost."

"Fair. How did the transfusion end up going?"

"Well. It went well."

"Good. Wait. Should _you_ be moving around considering how much blood you lost?"

"Um… well, maybe I should have eaten something…"

"Then sit!" she took him by the arm and steered him to the lobby. People began to look over as she forced him into a chair and ordered, "Now you sit here and don't move until I get you some food, and listen to me because _I am your doctor!_"

"You are not…" Mark strangled the sentence as she marched away. To the people staring he said "Heh. Just gave blood. It's the right thing to do! But – um – now I need to replenish my blood sugar… yeah." To his relief, people ignored him.

After a while, Calliope came back. She handed him some wrapped cookies – Oreos and Mrs. Fields – and sat down beside him. "There. Now eat up."

"Aha. The snacks of champions. Thanks. Would you like one?"

She shook her head, "No, thank you."

"What, you're not going to steal my food? Gasp." Mark had a couple of cookies before asking, "How well can you see through those shades, anyway?"

"Well enough. This place has good lighting."

"These cookies are good. Thanks again."

"I'm glad you like them."

"Did you steal them from the vending machine?" He smiled, trying to figure out what her facial expression was.

She merely answered, "Perhaps."

"You are a hardened criminal. Always suspected it. You know, I did almost pass out the first time I gave blood."

"I _knew_ it would be dangerous."

"I said almost. Someone came to my rescue with snickerdoodles and orange juice. The day was saved."

"But still, I can't believe it – to have someone deliberately draining blood from you – horrible!"

"Look, we may not have magic, but we do know what we're doing. It's a carefully maintained procedure. And the doctor said that I saved Januarius' life."

"Well… that's good. My god," she sagged in her seat, "what a day."

"I know."

They sat together quietly for a long time. Neither one moved.

Except that Mark reached over, and took Calliope's hand, and just held it. Her fingers twined with his.

"But we're together now," Mark said softly, without quite thinking about it.

"Mm-hm." And without quite thinking about it, Calliope leaned her head on his shoulder.

It was very comfortable, until her sunglasses fell off.

She jumped up, grabbing them at once, and shoved them back onto her face as she tried to march away. Mark got up, following his apple-colored friend and trying to keep the cookies balanced. His walk turned into a run – she was _very_ difficult to catch up to in a bad mood, he noted that for later.

"Calliope! Wait! I saw it, you don't have to hide – will you stop running away? I'm trying to help you!"

She stopped, her shoulders rigid. "I don't want you to see me."

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to stare, all right?"

"Okay, fine, don't remove the disguise, but don't storm away. I don't want to lose sight of you again."

She turned around, and he was pretty sure she was glaring at him. "Don't touch the disguise."

"I promise."

"Let's find Hector."

"As you wish."

ooo

Soon the M. L. E. found them – all four – and took them away, with appropriate memory modifications to the hospital staff.

"Because, of course," Mark commented in the corridor of St. Mungo's, "God forbid they remember the little good deeds they've done today."

"Nobody asked _you_," Linus snapped. He was standing between Mark and his sister, protectively. Calliope had returned the sunglasses and taken off the face mask and gloves. She stared at her hands rather than acknowledge the stares that followed her down the corridor.

Januarius was still unconscious when he was transferred. When his sister arrived at his bedside, she screamed, then sobbed, her knees still covered with grass stains from her first ever game of football.

At the hospital, Hector's arm was patched up in minutes, and he quickly returned to the Embassy, not once looking Mark or Andrew in the face.

As for Calliope…

"Bloody insane _banshee!_" she snarled, sitting in the Embassy suite common room. Still green.

"Such language!" Mark said cheerfully.

She was rubbing a sticky potion onto her arms (with the help of Mark, holding up a mirror), and though the windows were open, letting in the chilly autumn air, the smell of ginseng and treacle was still thick in the air. She wasn't in the bathroom because over the last two hours her paranoia towards water had only increased, and she didn't want her bedroom to smell like Dr. Baum's Skin-Tint-Taint-Balm ("All Natural Ingredients for an All-Natural Color, With Aloe and Vitamin E"), so the common room it was.

"I should say worse, for that witch who made this potion – damn her!"

"But at least you have an antidote," Mark pointed out.

"Only the most generic one they have. Of course, they couldn't mix up an _actual_ antidote because the only sample of the potion on hand is in my bloodstream. But they say it'll run its course in three days or so." She made an impatient noise, and ran her hand through her chopped hair. "I hate it when Healers have no idea what to do but they refuse to admit it."

"Doctors get it too… in fact, I think that happens a lot to everyone. Except, perhaps, concert musicians. I think teachers live that way as a matter of course."

Calliope looked at her viridian face, then at Mark. "You know what I thought, when I saw myself in the mirror for the first time?"

"If only it were St. Patrick's Day?"

She smiled, in spite of herself. "No, not quite. I thought of that movie we watched, '_The Wizard of Oz_.'"

"As I recall, that was more a case of it happening to be on TV at a party we were at. You didn't like it."

"No, I didn't."

"I admit, it's better when you're a kid. Be that as it may, you've got a perfect Wicked Witch of the West costume for Halloween."

"Right. And I've worked out why they fed me a green-skin, water-hating potion – me, of all people. It's a message. If you're going to throw your lot in with Muggles, remember what they think of witches." She turned away from her reflection. "I guess my next quest is to find a yappy dog to kidnap—"

"All right, but not a Chihuahua—"

"—anything to live up to my new, ugly wickedness."

"Hey. You're not ugly."

She stared at him. "Did they feed you something to make you colorblind?"

"No, I'm telling you, the color looks nice on you. Really brings out your eyes. _See_? That death glare you're giving me right now wouldn't pack half as much punch with old-fashioned _skin_-colored skin!"

"I'm _not_ in the mood for jokes."

"I'm not joking! I think you look beautiful."

She glanced again at the mirror, and scowled, her cheeks turning a darker green than the rest of her. "You don't have to lie."

"I'm absolutely serious… Calliope, to me you're always beautiful because I l–"

"I'm home!" Linus called, opening the door. "So _invigorating_ to work with the Obliviators again." He saw the two of them sitting on the floor and scowled. "Callie, sorry I couldn't stay longer at St. Mungo's. How are you?"

"In addition to my intense fear of water, I'm afraid I've developed an allergic reaction to it."

"Oh? That's not good," Linus seemed a bit distracted, "But hopefully it'll fade away. Keep on with the potion, then. Mark, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone."

Mark snapped out of an imagined sequence of shoving Linus back into the hallway, barricading the door, and resuming where he had left off. "Sure."

To his surprise, Linus did take him into the hallway, and shut the door, very quietly.

"What's up—" Mark stopped when he saw that Linus had taken out his wand.

"I don't want to have to use this," he said in a low voice.

"Then why did you take it out?" Mark's hands clenched into fists.

"Because, Printzen, I want to make what I'm saying absolutely clear."

"Printzen" said nothing.

Linus turned to face him, his wand held just level with his chest. "Stay away from my sister. I don't want to see you alone with her. I don't want you touching her. Tomorrow Calliope and I will be moved to my flat. From this day on I will be looking more kindly at the idea of your memory of her being Modified."

"_What?_"

"You keep your distance."

"What the hell is this about?"

"You _know_ what you did. I'm just amazed you pulled the wool over my eyes for so long. But that ends tonight."

"Linus, I have never –"

"I do not want to hear it. I am _warning_ you, Muggle."

And that was when Mark punched Linus in the face.

The crescendoing sounds of struggle caught Calliope's attention. She opened the door to the hallway to find Mark and Linus engaged in a wrestling match as they exchanged slurs about each other's moral character.

She sighed, and laid her hands on the paneling.

"_Protego_."

She made the hallway her wand, and a Shield Charm flung the two men several feet apart, landing on either side of the green witch. She walked out between them as each struggled to his feet (and she noticed that Linus' nose was bleeding profusely).

"Gentlemen. Knowing that you are both reasonable and thoughtful fellows, there must be a _very_ good reason for this."

She paused expectantly.

"Care to share it?"

In the silence, Linus scowled, and –

"I would not suggest spitting, Linus, because I am already in a _very_ bad mood. Now, if neither of you wants to share, I am going to assume it was not important, and dismiss the Shield Charm. We shall go back into the suite, we will stop causing a scene, and we shall all pass a pleasant evening, or as pleasant as possible considering our afternoon. And so help me if either one of you starts any more trouble I will hex you from here to Inishmore because I am _not_ putting up with this tonight."

That night, Hector and Andrew did not arrange any clandestine meetings. Everyone kept to their beds, to pretend to sleep, haunted by their thoughts.

In particular, Calliope, the treacle smell still filling the room, lay awake.

In the darkness there was no more green. There was only the memory of the assault – being dragged away, shoved to the floor, the straddling, the potion forced into her mouth –

She shivered and pulled the blankets tightly around her.

'_It could have been worse_,' she reminded herself.

'_It feels like it _was_ worse_.' And she wondered if this was how rape victims felt, or if she was exaggerating her own experience, and then she tried to buckle down, it was in the past, she couldn't let the memory keep haunting her. Tomorrow she would feel better about it.

She took deep breaths. '_Do not let emotions rule you_.' She had always abided by that rule. Where had she learned it?

From demonstration, of course. Her mother's heart condition meant she couldn't afford to be agitated; Philomel was therefore cool and reserved, and Calliope had copied her.

"But I loathe this – this feeling of being out of control, of being violated, hurt." she whispered aloud. "Turpentine… now this."

'_Then never be out of control_,' returned her thoughts. '_Never be ruled by fear. Perfect the Weaterwax magic. It needs concentration, emotional distance – you can do that. You will become so good at it that you can perform it whatever the situation, whatever the setting, no matter what is at stake. With whatever I have at hand. I can do it. And I'll never be trapped again_.'


	20. A Gift of Blood

A Gift of Blood

AKA the really long, ultra late, super dramatic chapter of people overreacting.

Sorry about the Schedule Slip. College ran off with me again. The next chapter might not be until the New Year – my apologies for that, too. But this one is nice and long, so that should hopefully make up for some of my slips. Enjoy!

ooooo

Linus was as good as his word. The next day he and Calliope were checked out of the Embassy hotel and set up in Linus' flat.

After Calliope and Linus left, Andrew and Hector kept a pair of eyes on Mark. They watched him carefully, lest he lose himself in drink again, but he didn't. He became quieter and more withdrawn, but he focused on his school and his students. His days were plotted out with school, lesson plans, reading new books for the class, and grading essays.

Hector, closing up his makeshift wand repair shop, was typically the last to return to the suite. One evening he came upstairs and found Mark sitting at the little table, for once not working. Mark's arm was extended in front of him, and he was looking at the little puncture mark set in the middle of his elbow.

Hector set his things down carefully. "Mark? Are you okay?"

Mark looked up. "Oh. Hi, Hector. Didn't hear you come in." He unrolled his sleeve to cover his elbow. "I have a slightly odd question for you."

"Um, sure."

"Who is Januarius Fell? Can you please tell me about him?"

Hector stared. "Okay… Well, I guess to start, Januarius Fell is a Ravenclaw, and his sister is a Hufflepuff. That explains a lot about them."

"That means absolutely nothing to me."

Hector gave an irritated sigh. "You and Andrew, it's so hard to talk to you people about Hogwarts."

"I'm so sorry. Just, what is Ravenclaw?"

"I'm Ravenclaw. All Ollivanders are Ravenclaw. Except for a couple people – like Calliope and Linus' mum – but they're nearly Ravenclaw anyway. It's is the house of intelligence and wit – those people who rely on their brains. But Januarius' sister is a Hufflepuff. Um, less brains, more just hard work, loyalty. But other than that, they're a lot alike, the two of them."

"Are there any other siblings?"

"Nope. Just the two of them. Their mum died a while ago… I never asked why… but their family is kind of… strained."

"How well do you know them, exactly?"

Hector shrugged. "Oh, fairly well. He and Tess are very close, after all."

"And their dad is an anti-Muggle jerk, and they picked it up from him?"

"Actually, they don't live with their father. Their dad is an alcoholic, and Jan hates him. He worked really hard to get himself – Januarius – made into Julietta's legal guardian, so that they could live by themselves. I don't know exactly why, but," Hector gave Mark a meaningful look, "from what Tess has told me, Januarius had good reasons."

"O… kay. And he became a minister?"

"He said it's his vocation. He's really committed to it. He spends a crazy amount of time going out and paying visits, hosting services, I really don't know what all else. And Julietta helps him, when she can."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen. Technically she should still be in Hogwarts… but… she has this medical condition. Something about her spine."

"Scoliosis?"

"Sure, why not. Anyway, her treatments for that – they keep her from being in school. So she's been pulled out – a lot of people are pulling their kids from Hogwarts anyway. And she works for her cousin, Umbridge, the rest of the time."

"Poor thing," Mark muttered without thinking.

ooo

Every day Mark saw his students change a little – become at once steadier and more open, like plants putting down roots and opening their petals. At the Stidolph School he felt most alive and awake, and found himself thinking, '_The worst is over. These students will be all right, if only…_'

Mark's malaise was only compounded by events at the School – as the curriculum (which now included Creative Nonfiction to replace 20th Century History) wore on, his role as primary confessor and counselor to the students became a heavier and heavier burden. They trusted him more, which was a good thing, but it also meant trusting him with their secrets. Horrific power plays, arbitrary cruelties, abuse of every sort – the stories grew darker, and revealed more vulnerabilities.

One day a few parents came seeking their children. But only wizard parents, and not even all of them, only the handful of them who could stomach the thought of a werewolf for a child. But once they'd swallowed their fear and braved the iron gates of the school, they were met by a gaunt, guarded veteran with next to no resemblance of the child that had been lost. Mark had to mediate these meetings, reconciling the student and parents. The day had ended in tears.

The very worst was the day that a philanthropic gesture was offered – an anonymous donor funded the materials and labor to make twenty-eight batches of Wolfsbane Potion, one for each student. It was unprecedented, generous, and cause for celebration – except in one detail.

The contracted brewer was Circe Goshawk.

Mark tried sending a letter to Calliope – to tell her that Circe was elbowing her way into the school and being perfectly legitimate about it – but with each effort, the words failed him – he had to speak to her in person, if at all; if he was going to write he'd reveal so much more than he had to. The state of affairs would only worry her more, and besides, Linus (slimy, loathsome, eminently punchable bastard) probably wouldn't let her see it.

He watched Circe, even though he had no idea what exactly he was looking for. _Any_ of the ingredients she used looked disgusting.

Ms. Brynach and Andrew had to admit, Circe Goshawk was happy to get to work, and pleasant, if not exactly friendly. But she said one thing that poisoned her visit…

She'd arrived four days earlier than expected, and announced that it was time to collect blood samples. When Andrew questioned her, saying he'd never heard of Wolfsbane having blood in it, she'd dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

"Oh, look, who's the potions master now? Look, all I need is to personalize each brew. No two people have the exact same body chemistry. If I can customize every potion – just slightly – to match its intended recipient – and I _can_, with a little bit of blood – the results will be _that much_ better."

By this time the students entered from recess. Mark consulted with Andrew about it, who admitted that the idea was gaining traction among avant-garde potionmakers circles. But Mark's students were hesitant, and some seemed shy of Circe with her big distracted smile and greenish hair. So Mark stepped forward.

"Hey, look, just to show that it's all okay, I'll provide some of my own blood, for starters."

"An excellent idea!" Circe sat him down and pricked a finger to draw a little blood – "Just enough, just a few drops. Hey, you never know – you may end up getting bit and I'll have to brew up Wolfsbane for you, so this is a good investment!"

The mood had been warming up, but her words froze it at once. The students who'd heard her glared at her, with Guadalupe spitting, "I would _never_ let that happen!"

So Circe said little more until the end of the day – and less still when she returned to hand-deliver the first batch of Wolfsbane.

Mark barely slept the nights of full moon, imagining his students poisoned, or dying, or else tearing each other to shreds. But when he arrived at school the next day, they were all tired again, weak, but uninjured, and free from poison.

So when Circe arrived, asking if the potion had been a success, he and Ms. Brynach rightly praised her for it – but when the girl asked if she'd be back "Some time next month," Mark said nothing. It was already well into October.

_He_ might not be there next month.

That was, however, only his School dreads. After the disaster at the pub, he had been forbidden from stepping off of the Embassy compound (of which he now knew almost every inch) to anywhere except the school. He spent most of his time in the suite, trying to ignore the memory of Calliope that haunted the table, the couch, the room that had been hers and was now empty. Her silence was tangible.

From time to time, when the memory became too much, he went down to the bar, after both of his chaperones were asleep. He never got drunk, though. Really he was there because the bartender was someone to talk to who was neither Andrew nor Hector nor a recovering werewolf and student.

It was something that the bartender (whom Mark began to think of as a 'chum') had said that gave Mark the idea to get in touch with an Obliviator. The idea had originally been to talk to Linus – but every time he thought of Linus, his hands clenched into fists of rage, and he found himself replaying the moment he'd punched him (with increasing amounts of blood and whimpering every time).

The only other Obliviator he knew of was Amity Tweak, and she'd responded to his owl with an enthusiastic acceptance.

Over tea, he shared a particular idea that he'd had for a while, and she agreed to it with enthusiasm.

A couple of days later she returned to the Embassy with a crate of little bottles specially made for memories. She couldn't get authorization to bring a proper Pensieve to the Embassy, but this would do fine.

One by one she duplicated the memories of Mark's Moody Mondays ("The name was not my idea," he'd explained), and every testimony and confession of the werewolf students, those admitted in public and those that had been shared privately, after hours. Mark had acquired the signed permission of every student whose testimony was included.

He'd said to Amity, "In case my own memories are deleted – Modified – whatever – I want what I've heard to remain. And I hope, if they catch Fenrir Greyback, that the jury listens to each of these testimonies, and then throw him into a small cell where he'll rot for as long as he possibly can."

When they had duplicated the last memory (after three days, because it was not an easy process), they'd shared a cup of tea, and Mark had asked her abruptly, "How is Calliope?"

ooo

Something about Calliope changed after the day in the Black Otter, or else it only brought her attention to changes that were already underway.

But Calliope noticed, and though she tried to hide them (by her usual method: silence), the people around her noticed. Twice daily she felt Benny compulsions, to draw or do woodwork, and these compulsions grew stronger with time. She often wore a preoccupied, distant expression as if listening to voices in another room. Without even realizing it, she studied her face in reflective surfaces, feeling there was something _wrong_. And the memories – it seemed as if day-by-day, her memory got weaker and weaker.

Where had she left her comb? Had she locked the door? What had she said to her brother at three in the afternoon? What was her plan for four o'clock?

Fleur resigned herself to "Philippa," "Florence," "Frida," and "Blanche" with a smile, but Calliope berated herself. Meanwhile, Amity was only ever called "Miss Tweak," because that was easy to recall.

It eventually became so bad that Mr. Larson quietly, and with gentle courtesy, let her go from the Department of Mysteries. She had failed even that mission. Circe Goshawk was sad to see her go, but she couldn't remember if anyone else had been.

The anxiety, dizziness, shaky memory, and distraction ate away at her. She lost appetite and her skin paled as she slept less and less.

But she fought. Anxiety and fear, she was determined, would _not_ be her masters. Every day was a rigorous routine, much the same as the day before.

Wake up. Practice the basic yoga from a class she'd taken in Boston this one time, and perform it with verve and determination. Then, breakfast. Dedicated reading of the defensive and offensive magic books that Dora had loaned – she took notes to aid comprehension, read Dora's notes from Auror's class, and tried to invent mnemonic devices, anything to help her retain what she had learned.

Then, follow a Benny compulsion, as she called her fits of weird creativity, which she had timed to a science. Then, to clear Benny from her mind: violin and cello practice.

She did not feel strong or clearheaded, but well enough to go on, though an odd fear grew at her day by day, to which she could put no name, other than "the fear of losing herself." She huddled under Linus' protection, which had grown even more vigilant – until the nervousness of Julietta Fell prompted everything to shatter.

ooo

Julietta's fear was fed by love for her brother, and fear for him.

Januarius Fell had been struck with _Sectumsempera_. When he was admitted to St. Mungo's Hospital, his torso was covered with three large gashes and one smaller gash. They crisscrossed him. His flesh had been deeply scored, and even his shoulder bone was exposed. He spent a four full days in hospital, recovering.

And – in the pale flesh of his arm, right in the vein, right in the crook, he had a tiny pinprick.

It was this pinprick that really worried his sister, Julietta.

She had been too shy to ask any of the St. Mungo's nurses about it, but she was fairly sure sticking needles into people at sensitive places – just looking at the wound made her wince – was not their protocol. She'd read all the reports of what had happened, and he had only received _Sectumsempra_ at the pub. (She shuddered to think, '_Only Sectumpsempera_.') He'd been healed – as well as could be expected for such Dark Magic – at St. Mungo's, and Julietta put great faith in their abilities. He must have gotten this, then, at a Muggle hospital. Who knew what unnatural, fumbling efforts of medicine were made there?

What's more, since that first day that he was awake, Januarius had been – different.

In the hospital, in his waking hours, and even when he returned home, he saw things – things that made no sense, that weren't _there_. He would have fits of blank staring, then frenzied activity – cooking! Cleaning! Writing! Walking! Visiting! All of it double-speed and _why can't you keep up Julietta_? – then back to the staring. And the hallucinations.

That was the first three days. After that, Julietta was made to return to work, loath as she was to leave him alone for hours. Jan's pace relaxed – relaxed to the point where he stared more than anything else, reacting to nothing. To talk to him required a concentrated effort to snap him from whatever daydream so absorbed him. He steadfastly refused tea. He trembled. He cried in his sleep.

This was not right. He was supposed to be _better_. What had the Muggle doctors done to him?

Julietta didn't dare ask cousin Dolores for help, nor anyone else at the Ministry. If they had the slightest idea that Jan was unwell, and couldn't care for Julietta, then… she shuddered. And what would any of them know about Muggle medicine? So she went to the only Muggle friend she had: Guadalupe Santos.

It was a tenuous friendship, just worthy of the name.

When the young witch had to go _somewhere _to be alone, she found herself visiting the Agnes Stidolph School. Guadalupe was usually off practicing football by herself, and didn't mind Julietta watching. Eventually the two were allowed to visit the nearby town together, without a chaperone. Their walks out were like stepping back into normalcy; mingling with the Muggle schoolchildren, talking about anything. Guadalupe liked to talk a lot about a boy she fancied at the school – she never mentioned him by name. Neither of them liked to spend money. Little patches of common ground.

That day, Guadalupe was touched and honored that Julietta trusted her enough to ask for her help. Sadly, however, she had little real help to offer. But she did what she could. She listened, and when Julietta, much flustered, had finished, asked her to list the symptoms again.

She nodded and looked thoughtful and wise – far wiser than she felt – and took a deep breath. "Don't panic, but I think it might be cocaine."

Julietta blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Cocaine."

"That stuff that Muggles drink in red and silver cans? I thought…"

"No! That's Coca Cola. Cocaine is a drug."

"And doctors give it?"

"No, it's the kind of drug you buy – illegally. You get addicted to it. It's awful for you, but it – you know – you get hooked. You shoot up – inject it through a needle in your arm. Don't flinch! I've told you about Noëmie, she was an addict. She didn't _choose_ to be."

"I never said she was…"

"She had gone cold turkey since becoming a werewolf, but sometimes she still got the cravings. They made her act so… weird. And I, heh, I know weird!"

"Where is Noëmie now?" she asked, with a little bit of confidence.

"She's dead," Lupe's forehead creased as she said it. "The wizards who raided the pack put her down – just killed her because she was an annoyance. She _did_ get over the addiction, though, I know it."

"But – if cocaine is so bad – doctors can't just give it out, can they?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's been a long time since I was in a hospital. Doctors do give morphine, but, cocaine, I don't think – I really don't know. Julietta, I think you have to ask someone who was there."

Julietta's face was very pale as she nodded. "I will. Thank you, Guadalupe." She felt braver. There was a name to what was happening: it was definable, classifiable, and knowable.

"Before you go…"

Julietta had already started to walk away. "Yes?"

"It also sounds like shell-shock. _Shell-shock_," she repeated for the young witch's benefit. "It happens to war veterans, mostly, but I think you can get it if you're ever just scared enough. I've had it.'

"Really?"

"Of course." Guadalupe leaned against the railing of the fence and studied the sky. "Right after I was turned. When I could get time to myself I was just… I felt numb, like all the shit was happening to someone else. I had bad dreams, yeah. Still have them. Sometimes the world in my head seems more real than the other."

"Oh…" Julietta shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm… well… sorry to hear that…"

"Yeah, don't mind me," Guadalupe smiled thinly. "So, you going?"

"Yes."

"C'mere, then." Guadalupe wouldn't let her leave without a tight, lasting hug.

Julietta made this visit on her lunch break, so she had to return to the office – Cousin Dolores' office – to work, with gnawing hunger. Family emergencies meant little to Umbridge, who simply smiled and killed off all protest with a "Why, what was he doing in a Muggle public house at all, hmm, Julietta?"

So there was nothing to do but work.

And work she did, despite her empty stomach, with a fervor that rather astounded her coworkers. Fervor hid fear. Why, she asked herself, was she so afraid to find out exactly what had happened in that hospital? She took out her cards in a spare moment and drew three.

The Seven of Swords. Betrayal. Theft. Loss in an unguarded moment.

The High Priestess. Secrets. Transformation. Do you _really_ want to know the answer? Her eyes seemed to ask. And –

The Two of Cups? Love, new beginnings, finding your soulmate? What in Merlin's name was _that_ doing there?

Sometimes her cards could be weird. She tucked them away and went back to work. She begged Dolores to let her leave early. Permission granted. In the Atrium, she paused, unsure where to go next. Then she reversed, back to Dolores' office, to look up "One last thing."

People passed by her in the filing room, wondering at her rapid-fire filing. There – Linus Ollivander's complete address. She copied it down and returned to the Atrium.

She didn't want to go to the American Embassy. She'd liked Mr. Printzen, but the rumors flying around about what he'd done at the Black Otter were each stranger than the last, and she wanted to take no chances. Hector Gibbs, Tess' brother, had been hurt; he might not be very informative. But she'd heard that Mark and Hector had accompanied Januarius to the hospital – along with Calliope Ollivander. Now living with her brother.

ooo

Odd weather that day. The clouds were dramatic as they massed in the sky, and the sunset was a stretching, consuming symphony of color, the Dies Irae rendered in cloud and ravaged sunlight. There had been a tension all day – like it was only waiting for night. And when night fell, it brought with it a storm. Heavy rainfall and wind battered the trees, roofs, windows, and cobblestones.

Calliope opened the door to the flat a little way. "Hello?"

"Miss Ollivander, I'm Januarius Fell's sister, Julietta."

"Have we met?"

"I don't think so, but I know who you are. Please, can I come in, I need to ask you something, it's urgent! I swear I'm not a Death Eater!" she added, by way of a pathetic afterthought.

Miss Ollivander stepped back, her eyes narrowed. "Forgive me for not trusting you right away," she said. Julietta was reminded of the Page of Swords – and the High Priestess.

"Please, please Miss, it's my brother, I'm so frightened for him. He's been all strange since he visited that pub and was hospitalized, please, I need to know, what happened to him at the hospital, because I have to take care of him, there's no one else, if I can't help him I'll go back to Father, Miss Ollivander, my father is a monster. _Please_, it's for my brother!"

"All right, all right, calm down. Please come inside," she stepped aside. "I'll put on the tea." She shut and latched the door behind Julietta. As she moved around the kitchen, Julietta watched her. She was looking for similarities with her brother, Linus. Calliope was even taller than he was, and – well, other than that it was a bit hard to tell, considering her skin was still a distinct olive tone.

She had the tea ready very quickly. Julietta hadn't been paying attention, but it looked like she just set her hand on the teapot to get it boiling. Calliope set out a plate of biscuits, and Julietta took two at once, feeling at once how hungry she was.

"I won't take up your time," she said between bites.

"I assure you, I am entirely at your disposal," came the even reply. "Are you hungry? Go ahead, have as many as you like."

Julietta took another biscuit, and tea. She remembered enough manners to ask if Miss Ollivander was well, how was her brother, and to answer the polite returning inquiries. Finally… "If I may ask, please tell me, what exactly did the Muggle surgeons do to my brother?"

Calliope spoke carefully. "I'm sorry I can't answer fully – I myself was sick at the time. I still haven't, in fact, recovered, as you can see." She indicated her skin. "But I do remember: your brother was almost dead when we arrived at the hospital. He had lost too much blood, and was losing more. So the doctors – and they were very efficient, very clean about it all – sewed his wounds shut, and gave him a blood transfusion."

"A _what_?"

"A transfusion of blood, directly into his arm, to replace what he'd lost."

"They – they put his blood back into him?"

"No! It was someone else's blood. And they had to match it properly, or –"

"Whose?"

"Pardon?"

"_Whose blood_? Was it you?"

"Merlin, no. It was Mark's – Mark Printzen's."

Julietta stared. "Come again?"

"Mark Printzen donated blood to your brother. I watched, it was perfectly sanitary—"

"You _watched_? You watched? You let that happen? How can you sleep at night?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"My god – that's – what – how did – how?"

"A hypodermic needle, Miss Fell, there's no need to get hysterical. One was stuck into Mark's arm, and one into your brother's, with a tube connecting them. There may have been some kind of sack, but I didn't really see… and I guess they just pumped the blood from one to the other…"

"Ugh, ugh, oh god, I'm going to be sick." Julietta almost ran for the sink, bending over it rather melodramatically, Calliope thought.

"Well, don't overreact or anything," she said in an undertone.

Unfortunately, Julietta heard it. "Overreact?" she turned to the taller woman, her face pale and drained. "You know, you _must_ know, what we believe about blood? Muggle blood? Oh, _God_, my God, what have you done!"

There was a knock at the door.

"Julietta, please, we can figure this out, please, calm down, please –" the knocking grew louder, and the girl was actually sobbing.

"Oh, please, just sit, I'll get the door…." She set the girl into a chair and checked the peephole. "What the –" she opened the door a crack. "What are _you_ two doing here?"

"Um, nice to see you too," Mark answered. At his side, Andrew gave a half smile that died momentarily.

"This is a bad time," she said, trying to make it meaningful.

"For us, too. We left the Embassy in a real hurry."

"Really? What happened? Where's Hector?"

"Long story, _please_ let us in."

"All right – oh! Security questions."

"Calliope, you know it's us."

"Well…"

"Andrew's half-Creole, and I spent an entire summer trying to build a hobbit-hole," Mark stated with exasperation.

As Calliope opened the door, she said, "Make this quick – Linus doesn't want to see you around here."

"I know…"

"Who's in the kitchen?" Andrew asked.

"Julietta Fell. She's – kind of upset. Maybe you can help," she added to Mark.

Julietta had her head buried in her arms on the table. Andrew asked her casually, "So, Julietta, how are you?"

She let out a loud sob. Andrew sighed. "I know exactly what you mean." He sat opposite her.

Mark cleared his throat. "Um, Miss Fell, it's me, Mark. Are you okay? Calliope said you might –" he didn't even finish before Julietta looked up at him, staring with eyes that were suddenly fierce.

"Mr. Printzen," she muttered.

"Yes?"

She stood up, fists clenched, as though challenging him to a fight, even though he was a head taller than she was. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true that you – that you forced some of your blood into my brother?"

Mark frowned. "Not like that. The doctors – Muggle doctors – performed a blood transfusion on him, because he was dying. I volunteered my own blood, because I'm a universal donor. That's all."

"Then you—" Julietta fell silent, then looked back at Mark with a silent dare in her eyes, though her mouth trembled.

"Prove it?" Mark offered. "Hold on." He took off his outer coat of red fleece and handed it to Andrew. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. "See?" he showed her the puncture mark.

She gasped. "Just like Jan's…"

"Believe me, Julietta, when I say it was to save his life."

She sagged, leaning against the table. "But you've killed him," she said in a choked voice. Tears filled his eyes. "You've killed him."

And she wouldn't listen to any of their offers, consolations, please to stay and listen. She straightened up, looking more crooked than ever, grabbed her cloak, and ran out the door without another word. Outside the Zenith, it was raining. She held out her wand hand and waited for the Knight Bus, shivering. She chattered out the name of her street, her home, where Januarius was waiting for her.

Back in the apartment…

"Should we go after her?" Andrew asked.

"I'm not sure it would do much good," Calliope answered resignedly.

"More drama. That's all it would be, more drama," Andrew slumped at the table. "Mark, please tell her what happened. We have to go back soon…"

Calliope had never seen him look so dejected. "Let me take your cloak… I have tea ready, for what it's worth." As she hung up his cloak, she noticed it was damp from the rain. "Didn't you take Floo powder?"

"No. Andrew finally got clearance with the Embassy to let me leave the place, with just him as an escort. But we have to say when we're leaving, where we're going, and check in as soon as we get back."

"And pray that Linus doesn't see you in the meantime," Calliope added.

"I know, I know! But trust me, Linus is gonna want to hear this. Well, what happened – " Mark, seated at the table, glanced at his old friend, "But I can only tell you, really, how it ended –"

"It _started_ with your cousin visiting," Andrew snapped, his head in his hands. "Now just _tell_ her."

"Yeah. Tess paid a surprise visit. She knocked. I let her in. She just kind of pushed me aside. She called for Hector, I went back to my grading. So she walked into what used to be Linus and Hector's bedroom."

Calliope's eyes widened. "I think I can guess…"

Mark nodded. In an undertone, he said, "Andrew and Hector were inside. And, what you're thinking? Yes."

"Please don't make it too – you know," Andrew muttered.

Mark nodded. "I don't know what exactly they were doing, but neither of them had shirts on."

"And Tisiphone intruded on them?"

"I think so. It started with a bloodcurdling scream – your cousin has remarkable pitch, by the way."

"Runs in the family."

"She ran into the common room, and I – I thought she'd seen a dementia maker or something, I was trying to figure out what was wrong. She just shoves me away, Hector comes in, and tries to calm her down, tries to explain. She _won't_ be calmed down."

"Of course. It's Tess."

"The first coherent thing _she_ says is, 'What did he do to you.' And Hector said, 'He did nothing to me,' and she was like, no, no, how did he do this – she basically thought that Andrew was forcing himself on Hector. So Hector tried to convince her it was consensual."

"While I am in the back room," added Andrew, "Trying to figure out if I should help him or…"

"With Tess in a black mood, the answer is, no." She frowned. "Then what?"

"It went on in that vein, until he just said, 'Tisiphone, I'm gay.' There was this silence."

"Thorough and complete?"

"No, because Tess was kind of hyperventilating. And then Hector got really scary."

She blinked. "_Hector_ was _scary_?"

"I know. He just said, in this _icy_ tone of voice, 'Do you have a problem with that'?"

"Of course she did."

"She started to list out what was so – unattractive about this arrangement, so wrong. And halfway through Hector just says in that cold voice –"

"He sounds like Uncle."

"What?"

"Did he have his arms crossed like this?"

"Yes, actually."

"That's so weird, that sounds _exactly_ like Uncle Servaas. Go on."

"He says, super coldly, 'I'm just trying to figure out if you're so mad because he's a man, because he's black, or because he's a Muggleborn.' And things got worse. It turned into –A shouting match? I guess? Except Hector never raised his voice, he just kept talking into Tess' pauses. And when Tess finally left – telling Hector to do something that I think is physically impossible – then again," Mark stopped himself, "wizards."

"And then," Andrew overrode Mark's last comment, " When Tess left, Hector wanted to be alone. In fact, he insisted. That was the only time he's raised his voice – or raised his wand – all night."

"And you came here."

"Yeah – Andrew talked the Embassy into letting me go with just Andrew for a guide. We figured we'd stay out as long as it took to –"

"I get it. But why did you walk?"

"We didn't," Andrew said.

Calliope reached out and flicked a few stubborn raindrops off of Mark's fringe. "You did, at least partly."

"Well, we took some kind of wizarding bus," Mark explained. "Didn't we, Andrew?"

"But why not just take Floo Powder? And –" she laid her left hand on Mark's shoulder. "Weatherwax magic is making me better at telling, just, _knowing_, when something is enchanted. And Mark, there's a spell on you."

"What? I don't –" Mark turned to look at his friend. "Andrew?"

He was leaning on his hands, raking his fingers through his dreadlocks. "Do we have to?"

"Yes, Andrew," Mark said, his voice painfully kept level – unlike Hector, his anger was hot and immediate.

"Don't get mad, but –" Andrew took a deep breath, could not look at Mark, looked at Calliope instead, "the Embassy agreed to let us through together if and only if Mark had a certain spell on him – a spell that means he can't go more than fifty feet away from me. While off Embassy premises," he added quickly.

Mark made no answer. Andrew went on, "It was the only way to get them to let us out at this hour, it'll wear off like _that_—" he snapped his fingers, "Mark, you wanted to come here, this was the only—"

"I understand that," Mark growled, his teeth clenched, "But it's still a –" Calliope started. "—ing big deal to put on me without telling me!"

"I was going to tell you –"

"This is such bullshit! For god's sake, Andrew –" Mark stood up, livid with rage, "You're _black!_ How can you just let them make a slave of me?"

Mark stalked to the door, but Calliope stopped him, just by calling his name. His hand was already on the doorknob, but he waited until she was next to him and about to ask him to stay.

Then he said, softly, "Calliope. I don't want you to see me like this. Please, let me go."

He left. They heard him running down the hall. Calliope turned slowly away from the door. After a while Andrew gave a grunt. "There. He's tugging at the limit of the spell. I can feel it." He gripped his teacup in both hands. "How can he blame me for this? I didn't invent this spell, I didn't want it…"

"We're still participating," Calliope stood over the table. "You and I, we both contribute to this – this – "

"This what?"  
>"This whole society, this whole mess. We're passive, passive but contributing."<p>

"But I thought I was doing a good job, balancing between the two – Muggle and wizard. I hate this all, so much! Just wasting time, hanging around, completely cut off from – you know – getting stuff done. I try to help, and Mark blows up in my face about it. I get with Hector and I'm almost hexed out of my own –" she flinched as he swore, "it's not even my own apartment. When did everything go wrong?"

"The night that Lord Voldemort returned," Calliope said dully. "Be glad that at least he's not terrorizing America at this very moment."

He looked up. "Aren't you – I thought more people were scared to say his name."

"No one wants to. Right now, I honestly couldn't care less. And, I don't blame Mark for being angry."

He slouched. "I don't either – logically speaking, that is. Every other way I'm pissed at him."

In the silence that followed, she couldn't think of anything to say but, "For what it's worth, Andrew, you _did_ have a balance, Muggle and Wizard. The best I've ever seen. Not that I had much experience."

"Can I have some more tea?" As she poured it for him, he sighed, "I wish…"

"That we could go back?" She sat down again, her eyes thoughtful. "I don't. I understand the feeling, but I wouldn't want to. I wouldn't want Mark to – to forget about me. About the real me. Of course, I'm plenty real when I'm with him – it's not like – oh, shoot, Andrew, don't look at me like that."

He dropped his inquisitive look. "I was _about_ to say, I wish I could go back. But then again, I can't say it with all my heart. Not really. Because of Hector. For some – crazy reason – I feel like because I've met him, it's all worthwhile." He looked up at her. "You know what I mean?"

He noticed her posture – hunched over, hugging herself. She didn't meet his eyes. "I wish I did. Do you think Mark's calmed down yet?"

"No. Calliope, tell me about Tess. Are she and Hector close?"

"Yes. She's always been protective of him. She sees herself as always fighting the world, I think, but Hector is on her side."

"He said something about her making him into a perfect little brother that she could coddle. I don't like her."

"She and I – well, I'm not the best person to discuss that with. We've always argued. But she does have her good points. She does love Hector."

"No, she doesn't! Not if she won't let him be himself. He was miserable – now I'm just trying to teach him to be happy, to love himself as a gay man. And she's ruining it."

"Andrew, are you sure you're not doing a bit of coddling? Hector's twenty. He can take care of himself."

"He – he should, but – I do not coddle!"

She stood up. "As you say. I know you're good for him – let him and Tess work it out between them. I'm going to get Mark."

"Wait." Andrew caught her sleeve. "Before you go, just – "

"What?"

"You mean a lot to him. The way you treat him, that, more than anything, can change his entire day. Please, just – remember that."

She found Mark in the stairwell by the elevator. He stayed turned away from her until she asked, "Mark, are you okay?"

His smile was brittle. "Of course I'm fine now. 'When I was angry with my friend, I told my wrath, my wrath did end,'" he quoted in a plodding singsong.

She knelt on the carpet behind him. "I don't believe that. Not when it comes to you. Your anger is never just _over_."

"No – but I'm learning to let it go faster. It's the only way to live – here, with Andrew, with the students."

There was a long silence. "I'm sorry, Mark. For everything that's happened to you."

"It's not your fault."

"So what? It's because of me that you're here. I still hate seeing you like this. I still blame myself."

"Are you kidding? You're the best thing I've got going for me." He gave a smile that wasn't quite so brittle. "I… I really miss you."

She smiled, too, in spite of herself. "I miss you, too. I don't know why Linus has moved me out here." She heard a clock chime. "Speaking of which, he'll be back soon. Come on." She gave him her hand to help him up. "What's the rest of that quote?"

"Oh – William Blake, _Songs of Experience_.

'_When I was angry with my friend_, _I told my wrath, my wrath did end_.

_When I was angry with my foe_, _I told it not, my wrath did grow_.'"

ooo

"_I bind unto myself today, the virtues of the starlight heaven, _

_The glorious sun's life giving ray, the whiteness of the moon at even_…"

Januarius heard the gate swing open and shut. He stood up, letting fall the Tarot card he had in his hand. He opened the kitchen door just as Julietta reached it. "Why were you out so late? I was worried sick! Anything could have happened to you!" Even as he spoke he pulled off her coat (soaked) and put her gloves (likewise) on the radiator, followed by her hat (best not spoken of). "How could you be so irresponsible?"

"I didn't think I would be out so late." She just stood there, shivering, in front of the radiator. She looked so little and crooked that her brother just hugged her, and she began to cry.

"Oh, Jewel, Jewel, come on," he scolded her gently, "I'm not angry. I was just worried. I felt so much better this afternoon, too, better than I've felt in days. Oh, don't cry. I'll put supper on – but you just caught me praying. Let's finish that together. It's St. Patrick's Rune, your favorite." He led her to the table. She picked up the stray Tarot card.

"The World?"

"Yes," He smiled. "I feel like I've been given a new chance at life – I want to understand how everything's connected. And it fits the prayer. Come on."

They recited the prayer in the same singsong they'd used as children. He held his sister's hand until it was over. Julietta's voice had been so soft Jan could barely hear it over the crackle of the fireplace.

"…_The flashing of the lightning free, the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,_

_The crashing of the deep salt sea around the old eternal rocks._"

He leaned forward. "What's the matter? Is it Dolores again?"

She shook her head. She couldn't look him in the eye. Instead she looked at the fireplace, at the icon of Saint Catherine, the collection of little ceramic elephants that Mom had acquired. The very sight of the well-loved trappings seemed to hurt her; she was all clenched, like she was holding back a wave of sobs.

"What is it?" he asked again. "Julietta, as your guardian, please, tell me what's wrong."

She tapped her inner elbow, picking at the black wool sweater. "Your injury. Here."

"What, the pinprick?" He reached for the same mark in sympathy.

"Yes. I wanted to know what it was. Those Muggle doctors gave it to you."

"Well – yes. They use needles to put medicine into people. It's barbaric, but nothing to be –"

"It wasn't medicine!" She sobbed in earnest. Januarius stared at her in sad bewilderment, until he heard her whisper something.

"What?"

Her eyes were clenched shut. "Blood."

"Explain," he said after a long pause.

"They put blood into you. To replace what you'd lost. Human – Muggle blood." She looked at him, bent as if under the weight of guilt. "Mark Printzen gave you his blood to keep you alive."

He leaned back. "Who told you this?"

"Miss Ollivander. And then Mr. Printzen."

Then, to her shock, her brother laughed. "Don't be absurd, Julietta," he said, his laugh becoming tighter, "that's disgusting. They wouldn't allow that. "

"I'm telling the truth! Mark Printzen's blood is in you right now!"

He twitched horribly and stopped laughing. "Don't try to disturb me, Julietta."

"He showed me, on his arm, where he was stuck, just like you!"

"… Stuck?"

"A needle went into him, a hollow needle, and his blood was pumped into you, Jan, they weren't joking, I'm telling the truth. Believe me."

Jan dropped his hands. His gaze slid off of her. He stood facing the wall – so still and for so long that she became afraid.

"Jan? Januarius, are you all right? Please say something, Jan, I almost cried when I heard it, but, but, we will work through this together, we always have. Jan, I still love you, I love you no matter what, you know that. Maybe it can be undone? Jan? Please, say som—"

"_Shut up!_" he turned to her. "How am I supposed to think against your idiotic _prattle_?"

"I was only trying to help –"

"You've ruined me, _ruined _me, Julietta, you –" he froze at once. His hand was raised as if to strike. Julietta was cowering.

He drew back, stood rigid as a soldier. "Go."

"But –"

"Go to your room, don't come out, don't let me in." He closed his eyes, When he opened them, she was gone.

He stood there, silent – he didn't know how long he simply stared ahead, before the fireplace turned green. He jumped.

Tess' head appeared in the flames. "Jan! Sorry to call so late, but please, can I talk to you? I need to talk."

"Now's – not a good time."

"Er – what about tomorrow, can I talk to you then? In the morning?"

"Fine," he replied distractedly – the green light gave the sanguine Tess a skeletal look.

"All right, then – tomorrow at ten?"

"Sure," he heard himself say. Then the green light of the fireplace died away, replaced by gold. Orange. Red light. Had he heard Tess say "Take care?" He couldn't remember. He sank into a chair, willing himself to be silent, calm. He clutched his rosary bead and fixed his eyes on the icon of St. Michael. In the mirror above the fireplace, every icon was reflected back at him, and in the midst of them all, himself, little and weak, lit by firelight.

It was going to be a long night.

In the morning, when Julietta passed by the study, peeking in on her way to breakfast, Januarius looked like he'd dozed off, his rosary beads still in his hand. But when she passed by again on her way to work, he was bent forward, awake, his eyes wide as he muttered the Our Father in Latin. He didn't respond at all to Julietta's meek good morning, good-bye, and profession of love.

Januarius Fell was afraid of his own blood, and all that it represented: passion, emotion, stimulation. He regulated himself, emotionally, like clockwork, afraid of what he might find if his blood ever pumped faster, racing to fill his heart.

Muggle blood was where the Mark of Cain rested. Muggle blood choked magic, it bred sin.

Muggle blood, within him.

His night had been a long attempt to regulate this whirlpool of horror and revulsion. He kept it away by writing about it, as if he were merely writing a story about a priest named J.F. who'd had an unspeakable sin done to him by a nameless Muggle. His sleep had been fitful. He was at the moment reciting every prayer he knew, when a pop of Apparation sounded on the walk. Dully he remembered Tisiphone Gibbs was supposed to call.

She knocked on the door, and finding it open, let herself in. "Jan? Oh, Jan…"

He stood up. "Tess. Hello."

"Oh, please sit, I need to talk to you, please." She hung up her coat.

"I'm listening."

Tess wiped her eyes and smiled at him. "You're so good, Jan." He noticed that she was wearing red – a red shirt that left her arms bare and showed off her collarbone and throat. And below – he dragged his attention away to look her in the face. "What is the matter?"

"It's Hector. My baby brother – he – after that awful event at the pub – god, I don't even know where to start. Hold on…" She fumbled, pulled out her wand, and conjured a bottle of wine and two glasses. She was remotely pouring out the second when she stopped. "I'm sorry, Jan, you don't –"

"I don't care." He knew he should have some other reaction, but the lack of sleep was weighing on him. "It goes with your hair."

"Sorry?"

"There's red in the wine, red tints in your hair. I'm sorry. I sound crazy. Go on."

She blushed, and took a drink. "Where to start. I was in Harrisburg at the time, trying to deal with – well, I was gone. I only just got to visit him last night. I've been very busy, visiting you and all… Hector was – he was with that American. The black man. Andy, some name like that – he was – well, I thought at first that he was hurting Hector, so naturally I took out my wand, but Hector disarmed me, he tells me he's gay – _homosexual_! He can't be, not my little brother."

"Huh."

"He said – damn him, he made me so – sorry, I shouldn't have said that – he said I was always forcing him to be the perfect meek little brother, my little _terrier_, that's what he said! It is _such_ a lie. I love him, I've only ever wanted what's best for him, Jan, where did I go wrong? He hates me – I told him to – where did I go wrong? Where's the brother I knew?"

Her words got lost in sobs; she kept sobbing as she leaned into Jan. He sat stiff and inert until he remembered, once upon a time, his mother had told him that a gentle touch could help a person more than all the sermons of the world. He put an arm around Tess, and then another. It was odd – he'd never seen Tess like this, so hurt, so very vulnerable. He'd never touched her for this long, either. She turned into his hug, returning it, still sobbing, but he needed it – he didn't have to hide his pain from her. He hugged her in earnest, the touch warming him as much as her.

And then things shifted. She drew away to look into his eyes. And then she kissed him. And Tess was not a woman to be resisted.

Jan stifled his surprise by the continual application of the idea, '_This isn't happening to me_.' It had sustained him throughout the night and morning. But as she leaned him back onto the cushions, as the kiss grew, something… woke up. He was confused, it was all awkward, but the only word he could apply to it was Pleasure. And it was good.

Oh, it was good.

Tess moved his glasses off of his face as he leaned further back – something caught his eye. In the mirror, in the firelight, he was lying on his back and a river of red was flowing into him, he was drinking in red. Red pleasure. Red alcohol. Red blood from a filthy Muggle. He was letting in a river of sin.

He went rigid. "What's wrong?" Tess murmured.

"Get off me."

"What?"

"Get_ off _me_!_" He shoved her off, heavily. She crashed into the low table, exclaiming in pain. "Jan –"

"_Accio glasses_," he said, sitting up, scrambling for his wand. "_Accio glasses!" _he had his wand but no spectacles, "_Why isn't it working?_"

"Jan –"

"Go away! Get away from me!"

"What did I do?"

Without his glasses, he could just make out her silhouette, a dim shadow among the burning flames. "You'd stay to tempt me? Leave!"

"But Hector –"

"Hector is a faggot, an abomination, you, just, _go!_"

"I love you, Jan—"

"_Leave!_"

Her silhouette got up and left, was gone; her footsteps were sounding down the front walk, he was alone.

A dim glimmer of red caught his eye. The wine. He grabbed the glass and drained it, then the second one, desperate to get the taste of Tess – of sin – out of his mouth. He set the glass down, loathing himself for his weakness. More wine. Where were his glasses?

"_Accio glasses!_" But his voice was wavering, he was just saying words, why wasn't his magic working?

It was his blood. Muggle blood. Sluggish and muddy. Blotting out his magic. Blotting out his ties with God.

Pumping through his veins at that moment. No – for the last seven days. This meant –

Muggle blood in his stomach, his tongue, his most private parts, his very lungs and heart – his brain, his eyeballs. His hands. He held them up against the light, close to his face. His vision was so bad he could just see the light glimmering through.

In his feverish dismay, his hands seemed to be lit from within, as though by a darker, primal fire.

Hellfire.

"Infernal," he breathed. "Bacchanal."

Damned blood, cycling through him, tearing his magic, his very soul apart. What penance could he do when the taint was in his own body? Made in the image of the Almighty Father, praise be to Him, remade in the image of that wicked Muggle – no, no –

He took out his wand. "_Accio_ – " he forgot what he wanted to summon, and the beginnings of the spell died within him. "_Lumos!_" the pitiable light flickered and went out like a firefly. "_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

An icon fell off the wall, the only effect. He numbly stood up, picked it off of the floor. The eyes of the Evangelists gleamed back from him. Luke, mournful. Matthew, cold. John, scorning. Mark –

Mark.

Why had he _done_ this? Why did he do this to him?

Envy suggested itself. This was vengeance on a superior wizard. Then again, Mark seemed prone to Wrath. This was a form of torment. Torture.

But beneath all these ideas, was what Julietta had said: '_He did it to save your life_.'

What if the Muggle had nothing to gain from it? What if it was purely an act of charity? _Compassion_? How could that be? Muggles were incapable of such generosity. That was akin to _agape_ – to selfless love, radiating to the world, for no purpose but love itself.

If that was true then Januarius had been, simply, wrong. About Muggles. About original sin. About … everything.

Impossible.

Heretical.

Blasphemous.

'_He saved your life_.'

If this was true – if anything that he'd learned was true—there was more than taint or blasphemy. It was a life-debt. Deep, sacred, and binding – old magic from the dawn of time. Tying him to this lowest of sentient life forms, this honorless thug.

But how did he know?

He clambered for Tarot cards, murmuring, "Beata Maria, show me the truth, let the truth make me free…"

Images fell into and out of shadow and firelight: Justice. A life for a life. Temperance. Blending of two essences _oh God_. The Hanged Man. Dangled and powerless, could he be cut free?

He begged the world, the saints, for a sign, anything—

A man, enslaved, naked, with a chain around his neck. But the chain was large, loose. The man could easily lift it, remove it, free himself.

So why didn't he?

A new mood took a hold of Januarius – but whether clarity or numbness he could not say. He took out paper and wrote a note explaining what the Muggle had done, and condemning him.

He finished the wine and left the room in disarray – his glasses reflecting from beneath the couch, and the Tarot enigma 'The Devil' sitting on the table.

He would not Fall. He would not lose his magic, his God, his soul. He would – he would –

Someone had said once, "Death before sin," and obviously they didn't mean that literally, because there would be precious few Christians left… but the mortal sins. Yes, let the body suffer mortification for the soul. Penance.

He sat in the bathtub, a handle in his hand.

I confess to Almighty God –

Silver pressed against the bared flesh of his forearm.

And to you, my sister – forgive me, Julietta –

He sought the pinprick, there it was.

That I have sinned through my own fault, through what I have done and what I have failed to do –

He cut from it, pulling down towards his hand, the pain then beginning to steal upon him –

Have mercy, Lord, take away my sin.

Ooooo

Happy holidays, folks!


	21. Dinner of Herbs

Dinner of Herbs

Note: For the first time in this chapter you'll actually meet the American Ambassador. I think it deserves mention that I imagine him sounding just like Garrison Keillor, and perhaps looking like him, too – but don't let that confine your imaginations.

This chapter contains the second scene directly inspired by "Catch Me I'm Falling/Make Up Your Mind," from _Next to Normal_. Just throwing that out there. Not that I own _Next to Normal_ or _Harry Potter_.

ooooo

In the car, en route to the Agnes Stidolph School, Mark stared out the window. "Andrew, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What do wizards think about dreams?"

"… You mean, dreams in general, or the dreams where you're naked and about to take a final exam, or…"

"I mean, do they think dreams can show the future?"

"Ah. Well – the only ones who can consistently see the future are Seers, who are pretty rare. But even without Seer blood, sometimes you'll just dream of an event, and feel that it's important. Then you ought to write down your dream, seal it in an envelope, date it, give it to someone you trust, and see what happens. If it's bad, tell other people, maybe try to prevent it. Pretty much like Muggles who take it seriously. Why?"

"I had a really disturbing dream last night. I don't remember much of it, but it involved Januarius Fell, and blood – lots of it. He was angry and I got the feeling he was angry at _me_, mad enough to rip my lungs out – "

"That's a pretty specific level of mad."

"That's what I thought in the dream, anyway. He may have been going all Lady Macbeth on me, or something, I don't know. But it was wicked disturbing."

"Sounds like it."

That afternoon, Mark was wrapping up his lessons and Andrew was getting the equipment for the football games – or, more specifically, the "I'm telling you, it's soccer, _real_ football is so much cooler, (sigh) fine, it's football, but only because I'm outnumbered" games – when Ms. Brynach ran into the room.

"Class is cancelled," she said, out of breath. "An emergency Floo has come for you two. You're wanted at the Embassy at once. Take the Floo, go!"

As soon as they arrived at the Embassy, Mark saw hordes of reporters and cameramen. "What is going on?"

No one answered. They were led up to Ambassador's office and left there. The Ambassador himself called them in. "I've been expecting you. Please sit down." They sat opposite him at the desk. The Ambassador was a heavyset man with a deep, breathy voice, who wore a white and red stole across his chest. He adjusted his glasses as the men sat down. "Care for something to drink?" He said it as if he thought the two men would need it.

"Sure," Mark said. "What's going on? Has something happened?"

The Ambassador rang a small bell. "The owl came to me just a half-hour ago. It's bad news. Januarius Fell, a minister with whom I believe you have some communication, was found this morning in his bathtub with his wrist sliced open, bleeding profusely."

"_What_?"

"Is he dead?" Mark asked.

"He has been taken to St. Mungo's; last I heard he was alive but in critical condition. His sister insists that he did not attempt suicide; how she can maintain that I don't know. He has, however, left a note behind blaming you by name, Mr. Printzen, for driving him too… that action."

"That is the most unjust, cowardly thing…" Andrew started.

"Mr. Dupont." The Ambassador held up a hand. "Now, before I do anything else, before I hear the story from anyone else, I want you to tell me: what was he talking about?"

Mark sat, stunned, his face drained of color. The door opened and the bartender came in, carrying three glasses and a decanter of some amber liquid. "Hello, Mr. Printzen, Mr. Dupont – Dad," he nodded to the Ambassador.

"_Dad_?" Andrew started.

"My son Geoffrey," the Ambassador indicated, "has his own school for diplomacy."

"Dad, that California intern who keeps challenging everyone to shot competitions is at it again."

The older man sighed. "Who is it this time?"

"Someone from the Israeli Embassy, and a junior Healer."

"That girl is going to start a world war if she's not careful. Give her some filing or something to do."

"Yes, sir."

"Now," he said as his son left, "Tell me."

Mark did so, and when he was done the Ambassador leaned back with a sigh. "Have you ever read _Dracula_?"

"Yes, of course… Have _you_?"

The Ambassador shrugged. "I'm part of a book club for Muggle books."

"… okay."

The Ambassador went on, "In that book, blood transfusions are experimental and radical, and thought dangerous, not for contamination across blood types, but social classes. A noblewoman could not possibly receive a transfusion from her servant, even when she was at death's door. A ridiculous, antiquated notion – yet it persists in the Wizarding kin such as Januarius Fell. Poor man."

Andrew interrupted, "I'm a bit surprised – if I may say so – that you're not repulsed just by the idea of blood transfusions. Most of the wizards I know – the pure-blood ones, at least – are."

The Ambassador shrugged. "I don't know much about Muggle medicine, but my brother tells me it's perfectly sound practice. It's astounding, the ingenuity they use without magic… I used to be repulsed, but now I know better."

"I'm telling you," Mark insisted stubbornly, "he would have died if I hadn't done anything."

"I believe you. I am on your side, Mr. Printzen… But do you realize that that creates another obligation? The more old-fashioned ones among us believe that, when one witch or wizard saves another's life, it creates a bond between them. A debt is created, passed down even to their children. And it's awful, I hear, to know that you owe a debt to someone you despise."

"No, I didn't realize," Mark said in a low voice. He drained the rest of his drink.

The Ambassador looked at him long and hard. "As Mr. Fell is Dolores Umbridge's cousin, I'm sure she'll want to fiddle with you as much as she can. I'll try to involve you in these talks as much as possible. For the moment –" he drew out his wand, "I give you leave, and in fact encouragement, to go out and take a long, long walk. You look like you need it."

"But the press – " Andrew started.

"As the formal Ambassador, the spells I cast on this ground have a certain – _potency_. I think a good Disillusionment Charm on the both of you should do to get you off of the grounds. Mr. Dupont, you know your duty."

"Yes, Sir."

Charmed and dismissed, the two men left the Embassy. They passed by paparazzi and angry protesters, quite unnoticed. "At least they're not holding signs," Andrew pointed out.

"Not yet," Mark sighed.

"What does this mean for us? What does this mean for the School?"

"I don't know." A light drizzle began to fall; the ground was still wet from last night's storm. They crossed to Hyde Park. After a while Andrew called out to Mark to slow down; he was walking too fast. Past a blown rosebush Mark began to jog, then run in earnest. Andrew had to run after – the fifty-feet limit always bound them when off of the Embassy grounds or the Stidolph School.

Mark ran and ran, almost out of Andrew's sight; he didn't know why he was running, but he had to, the dread and the fear and the cold joy of being outside was all that made–

_Crash!_

He collided with a tall woman and both sprawled on the ground. As they got to their feet, the man walking with her asked "Who's there? What was that?"

The woman gripped his arm and said clearly, "_Revelio Veritatem!_"

The Disillusionment Charm fell off of Mark at the same time that he recognized Calliope. Her eyes widened. "_Mark_? What are you doing outside the Embassy? It's not safe!"

"Something happened – he tried to kill himself, because of me – oh, Calliope!" And he hugged her tightly. And for the brief moment when everything was right, she hugged him back, saying, "Calm down, it'll be okay."

Then Linus' magic intervened, forcing them apart like a metal bar.

"Linus, what on earth –"

"Printzen, didn't I _warn_ you? Was what I said last time not clear enough?"

"Linus –"

"How did you know we were out here? How did you get here without me seeing you?"

"I didn't know you were out here! The Ambassador let me leave because –"

"_Shut up!_" Linus pointed his wand at Mark but Calliope grabbed it before he could perform a spell. At once he turned to her, alarmed. "Calliope, you know the first rule is _never_ grab a wand when someone is trying to cast a spell, it's practically the most dangerous thing you can do!"

"Linus," she said in a low voice, "Hurting Mark in front of me is practically the most dangerous thing you can do. I don't _care_ if you're my brother, you do _not_ attack anyone unprovoked, least of all a Muggle who is my friend, _what is wrong with you_?"

"Have you forgotten what he did to you?" he cried. "What he tried to do?"

Andrew caught up with Mark. "Calliope! Linus! What a coincidence. What are you doing here?"

Linus, not tearing his eyes from his sister's face, answered, "We were on our way to talk to you, Andrew. Not my idea."

"Whose idea, then?" Andrew asked.

He didn't get an answer. Mark stepped forward. "Linus, whatever you're thinking of, I have never tried to – I don't know – hurt Calliope in any way, and I never –"

"Forget it, Mark," Calliope said bitterly. "He's not going to listen to you. Look, we need to talk, all four of us, but can you give Linus and I a moment apart? Sit on that bench over there and we'll meet you in a minute."

Calliope led her brother aside, until he stopped shooting daggers at Mark with his eyes. She tugged his goatee to make him look at her. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Do you really not remember?" he asked.

"_Tell me_ and I'll tell you if I remember or not!" she answered, her voice barely under control.

He raked his hand through his hair. "At Hollywyck – Mark tried to force himself on you. He had you on the couch, he was almost on top of you," he spat out the words with difficulty. "He was saying it was – because he was a Muggle and you looked down on him? And he would show you what that meant – he _said_ that, I _saw _him! Didn't he?"

Calliope's face had gone white. She looked down at the ground. Linus had a feeling that that did not mean he was right. "What is it?"

"You're wrong, Linus," she said in a choked voice. And he waited a long time, until she had gotten herself under control. Then she said, her eyes clenched shut, "Yes, that happened to me. But it was not Mark. That was something that happened while I was imprisoned. Turpentine did it to me. Some spell that made – illusions – an illusion of _you_, that was the first time he cast the spell – but when it made Mark, it was the strongest. The worst. It threatened me, but the spell stopped before – Linus, Turpentine did that to me, if anyone did. Not Mark. You're _insane_ to think Mark would do it."

"But – but I was certain – "

"How long have you had this idea?"

"Since – since – since the Black Otter," he said with a note of shock. "Wait. A whole memory transplant done on me – I had almost forgotten, in the shock of seeing _that_ –"

"It wasn't real, Linus. _It was not real_."

For a minute Linus' eyes glazed over, then cleared. He shook his head. "I – I'm sorry. I honestly thought I was – oh, god, Shrimp, believe me, I thought I was acting for the best." He hugged her; she stood there stiffly. He asked, "Does anyone else know?"

"I told Amity. I haven't told anyone else yet." She added, "Don't tell anyone. Please."

"I won't – I promise. I'm sorry, Calliope."

"Let's go back to them." She mechanically tightened her braid. "We need to tell them why we're here."

ooo

They were in Hyde Park, it turned out, because they were walking to the American Embassy to try and find Hector and Andrew – and Mark, if he was absolutely unavoidable (that, at least, had been Linus' view until five minutes ago.) That morning an incident had taken place, which Linus didn't talk about, but which had changed his mind quite drastically.

It had happened like this.

That morning, the last day of September, Linus and Calliope set out for another visit to Amity Tweak.

For this particular instance, Linus suggested that they would use the Muggle underground, and walk. "A passing familiarity with Muggle transportation is very important in my line of work. I should take advantage of my time off to study a bit," he said.

If Calliope disagreed she gave no sign. And if she was impatient with how her brother took five minutes to study every map and every list of stops, she only said, "I think it's the Richmond line."

Linus felt decidedly better when they got off the underground and started walking It was a very cold fall day, with a dark grey sky and sharp winds, but he was with his baby sister, and he didn't have to take care of anyone else. He'd slept rather well. And it seemed that Calliope was doing well, too.

Together they commented on and critiqued the houses and front gardens that they passed. One had a garden of herbs – still green – overflowing the walls.

"How nice! Let's stop a moment," Calliope asked.

Linus calculated. They were almost there. "Sure. You know, scent is the strongest trigger of memory that there is."

"Mmm. Oh, look, mint." Her back was to him as she bent, crushed a leaf in her fingers, and smelled it. "Lovely."

"Yeah."

She paused before saying, "Once, right before Christmas, Uncle and Grandfather sat us all down to teach us about herbs. What they can do, magically speaking. Do you remember?"

"Er… jog my memory?"

"Do you remember what chamomile means?"

"No."

"It's 'strength in adversity.' How about thyme?"

"Other than that it makes for a bad pun?"

"That's 'activity.' Also, 'courage.' And what of mint?"

"Serve it with lamb?"

She laughed, still facing away from him. "You're cute. It's 'warmth of feeling' and 'virtue,' but also 'suspicion,' and 'protection.' Herbs can be very complicated. But it's useful to know, all the same."

"I'm sorry. I still don't recall."

"Well, that's not too surprising. You were only a child. Still, though… it's a crying shame," she said with a studied casualness. "That you should forget all about me."

He smiled, reaching out to her. "I haven't forgotten you, Shrimp."

"I'm not Shrimp." She turned around and the look on her face – Linus stepped back. "It's just sad because my death shaped you so much, and now you don't have that memory. It's been taken from you – and you never even really got over it." It was Calliope's face and voice but not her speech or expression – "Deep inside of you there's always just been a crying, scared little boy –" and she touched Linus' face with a sympathetic hand, her right hand –"doing all he can to make sure that disaster never happens again."

Linus just stared, his heart racing, but feeling in all other respects frozen.

"Not a word to say?" she gave a lopsided smile, her eyes very wide. "I'm just that dead to you, I guess. But what you don't realize – is just how alive I –"

Linus grabbed her hand and ran, sprinting down the sidewalk.

He ran and ran, and only barely noticed the drag on his hand as they ran, ran, ran, to drown out that voice with footsteps and panting and "_Linus! Stop!_"

He stopped, panting, and readjusted his glasses. "What?" he bent over, hands on his knees.

Calliope was in a similar state. "Have you gone _mental_?"

"No," he answered at once.

"Why were we running?"

"You don't remember?"

"No! I'm just looking at a herb garden and the next you're sprinting like a madman! Were we being chased?" she looked around. "And Amity's house is _that_ way."

"I knew that," he said stiffly.

He reversed and led the way to Amity's house, still holding his sister's hand.

Amity met them at the door, asking "Is there a reason that you ran past me like bats out of hell?" she asked in a slightly improved rasp.

"Amity, I need to talk to you. Now. Calliope, wait in the parlor. Please." He cut off Amity's protests about giving orders in her own home to say, "Amity, please listen to what has happened just now because it has disturbed me profoundly."

He explained and when he had finished, Amity had paused a long time before answering. Finally she said, "This is slightly worrisome. You're _sure_ that was Benedicte speaking, not Calliope?"

"She knew things Calliope couldn't know. Things _Benedicte_ couldn't know, unless – unless – do you have coffee?"

She stared, but directed him to the coffeepot in the kitchen. As he waited anxiously for his coffee to be ready, she finished his idea. "—unless there was an actual connection with Benedicte's departed spirit."

"How would that happen?"

"How do I know?"

"You're supposed to know!"

"What? I don't have all the answers. No one of us does. But I do believe I warned you that something like this might happen."

"I don't remember a warning…"

"Because you get about two hours of sleep a night. Hold on…" she put down her tea and got out the notebook in which she'd been recording all the details of Calliope's case up to that point. "Hold on," she said again in her tiny voice as she started to read. Meanwhile, Linus checked on his little sister. "Heh. She's dozing on the couch."

"No surprise," Amity muttered. "She's winnowing away to skin and bone."

"Winnowing?" he repeated.

"Has she been skipping meals?"

"That word… It does not mean what you think it does." Linus poured out more coffee into a cup that had a little dancing Stonehenge painted on it.

"Stop changing the subject. Has she been skipping meals?"

"No. She always eats with me."

"Uh-huh. Oh!" she had found the passage and pointed it out with a finger. He read it: it was Calliope's retelling of her escape from Turpentine, particularly the description of her makeshift wands.

Linus frowned. "So she used blood in the spell. That's just, that's basic. A part of a magical creature's body is needed as a channel for magic. That's basic wandlore."

"But blood isn't typical."

"No, it's not."

"And human blood especially, because this is close to the realm of—"

"Stop it. I know what you're going to say."

"And what is that?"

He frowned, and let out a breath through his teeth. "… Necromancy."

"Yeah. I'd say it's pretty close. You said it yourself, she had to have communicated with Benedicte's departed spirit."

Instead of answering, Linus took another gulp of coffee.

"And since when did you become addicted to coffee?"

"I'm not addicted. I can stop any time I want."

"Uh-huh."

"What's this about you warning me?"

"About the coffee?"

"_No_, about my sister."

"I know, I know. I warned you a while ago. Calliope still hasn't gotten a new wand?"

"No…"

"Why not? You told me Hector's got some kind of thing going on in the Embassy, why can't he fix her something?"

"We're not living in the Embassy any more."

"Oh. Right. But why haven't you gotten her a wand?"

"She's, I don't know. I've been hinting, but she doesn't want to settle down and get one. I think she's still too attached to the wand that…" another sip of coffee, "that Uncle gave her."

"And she's practicing with wandless magic. She's been telling me about that."

"Yes, I'm very proud of her."

Amity nodded. "Yes. But I don't think pride is all that she needs."

"What?" Linus looked over the rim of the coffee cup at Amity.

"Who all does she see every day? Does she meet with other people?"

"Calliope has never made friends especially easily," Linus said, rather affronted. "Of course she writes plenty of letters. She chats easily with the Mendelsons, my next door neighbors. And she and I can talk about anything."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," Linus snapped.

"Because you are as much of a brother to Benedicte as you are to Calliope."

Linus bristled. "So what? I don't remember Benedicte, thanks for the reminder, so what does it matter?"

"But if there's a shadow of Benedicte lurking around in Calliope, then you, my dear Linus, are the very last thing that Calliope needs. You're a reminder – you stir up the shadow of Benedicte, give it more to feed on."

"Feed on? This is not a case of possession! She just changed in the garden."

"But why did she – what was the word you used? Menace you like that? And not remember?"

Linus thought. "Split personality. Muggles sometimes get it from trauma after their memories have been –"

"I _know_, Linus."

"Follow me here. Trauma caused her to form a dissociate, distinct identity to shield Calliope, forming a personality called Benedicte, that has as much to do with the _real_ Benedicte as that salt shaker over there."

"Hey, for all you know, that's a salt shaker that's been to the other side of the veil and back. But why is that explanation better than my explanation of blood magic?"

"Because necromancy," he hissed the word in a whisper, "is black and foul magic and incredibly complex, it can't be done by _accident_."

"I've been working closely with her, Linus. You or I would have seen before now if this was a real, clean break of split personality. It was so much more likely a shade."

"Why do you say 'shade'? It's so imprecise. The term is debated all the time."

'Well, then, look, is it at all possible – at _all_ – that Benedicte became a ghost?"

"No. Ghosts manifest forty-nine days after death at the latest, not twenty years."

"What if she haunted the spot where she died?"

"The Regulation and Control of Spirits would have recorded the manifestation, found it, and told us, her family, about it."

"Ah, but would you remember that?"

"No, but Benedicte would."

"You mean Calliope."

"What did I say?"

"You said 'Benedicte.'"

Linus fell silent. He sat back against the counter, staring. After a while Amity said, "I didn't realize it would take that little to short-circuit you."

"To short-_what_ me?"

"To shock you. Linus, do you realize that _you_ are vulnerable? You are as vulnerable as Calliope, maybe even more so. You get so little sleep, and your memory has been tampered with – probably on a worse level than hers." She reached out to brush a lock of black hair out of his face. "Just because your modification wasn't invasive –"

"I'm _fine_." He shook his head away from her hand.

"You're not. Calliope needs more than your company alone."

"I can take care of her!"

"Linus, there's a certain point past which Calliope _can't_ be taken care of."

"What do you mean?"

Amity coughed. "Talking too much…" she took out a notepad and wrote quickly. Linus read, "Calliope's magic has no proper outlet, since she lost her job and her wand. Magic is mutable by nature, and it can act on the mind without an outlet. Her mind is already unstable."

"You use that word unstable, like she's dangerous."

"This is uncharted territory. No one can tell where Calliope is going. Not even herself. What I'm saying is," and this next bit was underlined twice, "_Stop thinking you can control her_."

"Who said that I want to control her? I just want to protect her."

"From what?"

Linus looked away. "Don't ask."

"You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?" When Linus didn't answer, she wrote further, "_Controlling =/= protecting_."

ooo

Mark and Andrew heard only a heavily abridged version of this incident. Linus didn't meet Mark's eyes as they returned to the Embassy to talk more.

Mark, though he listened to the conversation, withdrew into himself. There was something bothering him unduly about his impromptu hug with Calliope – not the way that even thinking of it made his heart race, not the way that she'd held him, or said that hurting him in front of her was very dangerous – eventually he simply drew Linus aside, because he had to tell _someone_.

"Look," he said to the wizard when they were properly out of earshot, "stop glaring at me like that, can we at least talk civilly for five minutes?"

Linus took a deep breath. "Of course we can talk civilly."

"I should hope so," After a pause, "I'm worried about her."

"So am I."

"You say that like you're the only one who has a right to _be _worried! I mean –" he dropped his voice, "we both love Calliope. Let me look out for her, too – at least let me do that."

"You haven't seen her in weeks."

"Yeah, thanks. She's lost weight."

Linus blinked. "Sorry?"

"I noticed it earlier, when – when – she's lost a lot of weight."

He drew himself up. "Well, my family tends to be lean, anyway – both sides."

"_Lean_ is one thing, but she's shrinking away to skin and bone! Haven't you noticed?"

Linus did not want to say that he _hadn't_ noticed, but nor did he want to admit Mark had a point, so he hemmed and made noncommittal noises until Mark demanded, "What are you doing, starving her?"

"Maybe she's just adjusting to _British_ diets again, as opposed to what an American might typically eat." And to drive the point home, he jabbed his thumb into Mark's stomach.

Mark, who was considerably less "lean" than Linus, colored scarlet. "Fine. Be that way – be an arrogant jackass with blinders on, I'll be fat and stupid and a Muggle _but_ I'm trying to actually _help_ her!"

"You talk like you have a better right to help her than I do."

"I do, if you're not even noticing when something's wrong!"

"Do you think I don't notice? Do you think I don't try to get her to eat more? I don't want to _force_ her – but there's only so much I, even I, can do." He looked out the window, folding his arms. "Listen. According to Amity – every day Calliope grows a little weaker, and feeding off her magic, the shade of Benedicte grows stronger. If it's even a shade – I don't even know what to call it. I would do anything to save my little sister, but I can't. According to Amity, I help Benedicte's shade as much as I help Calliope. She needs people she already knows and trusts – people like you. "

Mark gave a start. "I'm sorry, did you just admit that Calliope _needs _me? Could you say that again please?"

"Calliope needs people _like_ you," Linus admitted, grinding his teeth. "People who have nothing to do with Benedicte. What she _doesn't_ need is a complication who could only make her more upset and more disoriented."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Could you really be subtle, Mark? Subtle in love?"

"I do so every minute I'm with her."

"Yes. _Happening _to run into her in the park and then grabbing her like you've been parted for years. Very subtle."

"Do you – she's the third friend that I have in the entire country! And you wouldn't let me see her at all, have you forgotten how taut my situation is?"

"Have you forgotten that you put Calliope in danger?"

Mark fell silent.

"In the last war, one out of every seven wizards or witches with Muggle spouses or – or lovers were subject to attacks on property, or nonlethal bodily attacks. One out of twenty…"

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't read the newspapers every day?"

"Well, I don't know whether you do or not –"

"You and I lived together for how long and you don't remember?"

"Gentlemen, please," Calliope sounded annoyed as she poked her head in the door, "We're trying to make a decision, and I need you both."

The two men shared an equally distrusting glare. When they were all back in the parlor, Calliope told them, "Basically, as I understand it, I'm best off if I avoid places that Benedicte spent a lot of time. So that leaves out Hogsmeade (even though I'd really like to visit Dora). But Benedicte, I realized, never visited the Agnes Stidolph School. I need some work to do, I'm going stir crazy – sorry, Linus – and maybe helping at the School would –"

"That's perfect!" Mark exclaimed.

"Subtle," Linus muttered.

"You can give music lessons, I've been thinking music in the curriculum would be –"

"Music lessons? I was thinking filing or, or addressing envelopes…" she said.

"Oh, Calliope, you would be wasted on secretarial work."

"Hey!" Andrew exclaimed.

"I didn't mean it like _that_ – his parents are secretaries," Mark explained to the wizards. "I've been in touch with the various people from this one's birthday party—" indicating Linus –"and I'm planning demonstrations for later October, mostly stuff for both magical and Muggle kids to benefit from. Bill Weasley will be coming in, talking about curse-breaking and ancient Egypt. Miss Delacour will be hosting a French food tasting – _not_ wine – you can attend those, and then –"

"Your friend Miss Delacour, why don't you go hang out with her instead?" Linus blurted.

Calliope was looking down at her hands. "I'll have to think about a music demonstration."

"Well, don't think too long. The last time slot I'll have available is October 30th."

"So that's – right before your trial."

"Yeah. Please, Calliope?" He reached over and took her hand. She glanced up at him and in his face it was written clear: he believed she could do anything. A queasy feeling knotted her stomach. She had forgotten something, but what, but what?

"Oh, all right. I'll try."

"Well!" Linus said, a bit too loudly. "Teaching little werewolf teens about the violin and cello. I think it's safe to say Benedicte never did _that_."

ooo

Very soon after that, the Ollivander siblings went home, to resume their usual routine, enforced by the big brother. Linus had, since leaving the Embassy, become more regimented and organized. His life had little in it, but what tasks he had he performed like clockwork.

One of these tasks was that at nine o'clock at night, he insisted that Calliope sit on the couch opposite him, and they would try and talk her out, talk out her thoughts for the day, her feelings, and so forth. The mirror above the mantelpiece reflected their actions like automatons. Tonight, the brother seemed particularly anxious.

"I really don't feel a talk will be necessary tonight, Linus."

"No. No, it'll be twice as necessary as usual. I don't want _him_ back in your life."

"Linus…"

"I know, I know, just… give me a minute." He stood in front of the mantelpiece, looking into the pale grey eyes, rimmed with red, that he knew so well.

"I know that you're anxious," he said in a low voice, "I know you're doing things lately even you don't understand. And I know you hate to see _him_ again. I know… you're afraid. But people rely on you. You have to face your fears, sort out what you know, and force things to make sense, if they don't. If they make sense, you can't be afraid of them. This fear, this anxiety… you're only trying to defend yourself. Make up your mind to – to—"

"Linus?" Calliope's voice broke through his monologue. "Who are you talking to?"

Linus turned away from the mirror. "No one. Just a… just a pep talk."

Calliope, her knees folded up in front of her, was giving him a funny look. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Absolutely sure."

But his actions belied his words. Their "talking it out" was much briefer that night than it had been before. Linus, pleading exhaustion (no matter how much sleep he seemed to get, he was always tired) went to be early, with a draught of White King's Rheum, to stop the nightmares.

Calliope stayed awake later, looking over her sheet music and trying to choose which would be the best to present to a class. She was just getting ready to go to bed when she heard a knock at the door.

She opened it and Tess almost fell in.

"Good god! Look at you!" Calliope started to help her cousin straighten up. Tess clung to her dressing gown, almost tearing it.

"Please – cous – you have to help me – is Linus awake?" Her face was flushed and her eyes were puffy.

"No, only me." She sniffed. "You're drunk."

"No, no, not drunk, only tipsy. Calliope, do you know what he did?"

"What _who_ did?"

"Jan! He tried to kill himself. I think it was because of me…"

Calliope thought of Mark and the layers of trouble he was sinking into on that priest's account. She muttered "Oh, wouldn't that be nice."

_That_ made Tess get up off the floor and glare at Calliope as though she'd slapped her. "What?"

"I didn't mean anything by it – I'm sure you had nothing to do with it –" '_I've done it now_,' she thought.

"Then why did you say it?"

"I don't know, it's late and I'm tired and you just barged in here drunk and sobbing –"

"Is that all I am to you? A basket case?"

"For God's sake! Calm down!"

Tess, still standing, moved into a defensive position, shoulders hunched up, hugging herself, mouth closed.

"Now. What's this about? Why don't you sit down?"

"Don't want to."

"Well, fine. Suit yourself. Is there anything you need?"

Tess shook her head. Calliope felt more irritated by the minute. "Well, why did you come at all?"

"I had – a bad idea – someone gave me a bad idea – I really don't want to take it – use it – follow it – Shrimp, please, don't let me take it. I don't want to take it!"

"What is this idea?"

Tess muttered that she didn't want to say.

Calliope folded her arms. "And you don't want to take it."

"No."

"Then don't!"

"I – I don't feel as if I've got any other choice!"

"You _must_ have choices."

"Why do you think this is easy for me?"

"I didn't say that –"

Tess was angry again. "You're not taking me seriously, you little Shrimp."

Calliope straightened up, leaning just slightly over Tess. "You barge in here drunk, and you won't tell me what's going on, what am I supposed to do?"

Tess started on a ramble about how no one gave her respect, just because she hadn't been ever as smart as the rest of them, Calliope tuned her out (she'd heard it before) and analyzed the situation. It was late. She was tired. Tess was being too cagey and panicky, so Calliope had no idea at all what the problem was. Energy was being misspent, neither of them was getting anywhere.

"Tisiphone," she said, "I think it would be best if you just went home."

"But I can't! I have to talk – to – to—"

"To me?"

"To _anyone_, don't let me do this!"

"Why are you foisting this onto me? I'm not responsible for what you do."

"I'm – but –"

"Just go and sober up before you come back here." Fresh out of her mouth, the words sounded unduly harsh. "I mean – you can sober up here, if you can't—"

"No. Sod off." Tess shoved off Calliope's hand. "I can tell you don't want me."

Calliope did not disagree.

"Just say it, why don't you? Don't just look at me like that."

"Fine, then. I don't think I can help you. Just – ugh, just sober up and come back when you're ready to talk sense!"

Tess left, slamming the door behind her. Calliope, who would not feel properly guilty about this until the morning, shook her head and went to sleep.


	22. Nocturne

Chapter 22 - Nocturne

I have borrowed the idea of Death Eaters being able to zoom around in fwooshy black clouds from the films, because it's a pleasing aesthetic and happens to work in this case.

ooooo

Mark's program of guest teachers at the Agnes Stidolph School had a great effect. He found willing volunteers who were eager to teach both magical and Muggle subjects. Fleur Delacour, having a realistic idea of the attention span of a group of young adults and children, demonstrated French culture through the medium of cheese and pastries. Bill Weasley's afternoon of spinning yarns about pyramids and mummies had the entire class captivated. A field trip in late October to the American Embassy went over very well. With one thing and another, Calliope Ollivander's music demonstration had to wait until the 30th of October.

That morning, Mark was in a musical mood. He hummed snatches of "Oh, what a beautiful morning" as rain clattered and crashed outside. As he was picking out the day's outfit (with more care than usual), Andrew stopped him. "Mark, your trial is tomorrow."

"I know. 'I've got a beautiful feeling…'"

"Mark, stop humming and listen to me! Have you done enough preparation? I don't think that we have."

"I'll practice tonight, okay? I can't quite focus this morning."

"I noticed. What if you called in absent, I'm sure they'd understand—"

"I can't do that! This might be my last day with them! Don't you care about them?"

"I care, but, I came to England to help _you_. So I'll be staying home today."

"What?" Hector cried from the next room.

"I'm sorry, but this has to be done. I just don't feel ready. I need to go over the case. And –"

"I should too, I _know_. But I'll just tell the truth. I always do. We know how much good that has done. And I need closure with my students."

"And to see Calliope?"

Mark's hand slipped on his tie. "Yes. That. Is. Definitely a nice touch. Andy, relax. I'll be home early in the afternoon and we will plan away. Capiche?"

"Fine, have it your way. But don't blame me if everything gets out of your control tomorrow morning."

"I won't, promise."

ooo

Calliope sat in the backseat of the Embassy car, her violin case in her lap. She was fretting. "The humidity will affect the sound. Is it well-ventilated, your school building?"

"Well enough?" Mark's answer lacked certainty.

"The wood of my violin is very sensitive, you know… a stiff breeze might send me off-key for a week."

"Then why not use magic to protect it?" he asked.

"That'll make the sound too – too homogenous. Too bland."

"This'll be fun," said Hector to no one in particular. Hector was coming along in Andrew's place. He had never before visited the School, and wanted to tour it, perhaps seeing if he could find wands for the of-age wizards and witches. Plus, Linus insisted.

They were dropped off at the School, and Mark held open the umbrella so that Calliope could carry her instruments in dry security.

"The students are going to love you," he told her. "Just be yourself."

"That's easy advice for you, you're natural in front of a crowd… is it only the one school building?" She peered up the walk. "It's quite handsome."

"Thank you," Mark said proudly, as if he were personally responsible for designing and building the place.

It was warm and dry in the school building. Guadalupe, by the window, was doing rough sketches when she heard a kid nearby cry, "Hey, it's Mr. Printzen – but who're the people with him?"

Guadalupe looked out the window. As the figures came up the walk she could discern a tall man and woman, for whom Mr. Printzen held out an umbrella.

The curious children crowded around, and a few questions echoed, "Who's the man? Who's the lady?" When they stared up the stairs to the entrance hall, the other children filed out to meet them in the hallway, but Guadalupe could not stop looking. Why did Mr. Printzen cheerfully continue to hold out the umbrella for that woman, and that case of hers, even when it meant he got soaked? Why was he smiling as he opened the door for her?

Slowly, Guadalupe let herself _know_ what had been obvious since the days spent in the Sycorax, hearing the story of Beren and Luthien.

"Good morning, students."

"Good morning, Mr. Printzen," they chorused back to him.

"Mr. Bridges is calling a rain check today, but we have two volunteers to help us teach in his place. May I please present Miss Ollivander, who will be demonstrating music, and Mr. Gibbs, who will be talking to you about wands."

"Hello," Hector nodded, his hands behind his back.

Calliope gave a kind of a mumble.

"First things first today – you guys can have a seat, right here – let's talk about last night's reading. What did you think of the ending narration of _The Princess Bride_?"

Mark led a brief review of the last novel of the semester (a comedy – hadn't Calliope seen the film? It sounded familiar), conveniently giving her more time to dread her upcoming demonstration. After about an hour, Mark closed up the class and filed the students out neatly into the music room. Once there, he segued into Calliope's music demonstration.

"They're all yours," he said, giving her a confident grin as he let her stand alone in front of the class.

How many students _were_ there? Calliope stood in front of an army, all staring at her with wide, judging eyes. Especially that one girl – in the front – she appeared to be staring at her with sheer hatred.

"Um. Hello. My name is Calliope Ollivander."

"We know," snapped the girl in the first row.

"Miss Santos," Mark chided, a note of surprise in his voice.

"I'm… um… going to give you a presentation today… of music." She pulled out a chair and sat down. She set up her sheet music. "This is my music… this is my, um, violin. Um…" She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked at Mark. He nodded encouragingly. "Um… this is… a piece that I wrote. It doesn't have a name, now… except, um, '_Nocturne_.' Yes, that's it. I thought you all might like it."

Her hands lifted the violin, she leaned into it. She closed her eyes, and in her mind quietly erased everyone except the people she liked to hear her play.

The piece she played had two alternating themes, one of which was a slightly poignant melody. The second theme seemed to slide off the strings of the violin as if it were oiled – it was pitched lower, in a menacing minor key. The themes interacted with each other like a slow chase, where neither allowed the other to complete… and as the piece went on, it seemed as though the second theme was going to overpower the first…

At the end, the first piece managed to come to a sort of conclusion, and it faded away gently, until its voice melded with the rainfall. When she lowered her bow, the students began to applaud, led the loudest by Mark.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you. Um. I've been playing, um, violin for ten years now… wow, that is a lot of time… and I also play the cello. I started…" and now it was a bit easier to talk, she'd explained her history with music to many people before. When her voice began to fail her again, she trailed off, and introduced a new piece of music. Playing relaxed her, and she could speak again.

At one point she turned. "Mark, could you please get the book for me out of my satchel? The black one."

"As you wish," he answered, without missing a beat.

"Thank you… Now, um, all of you must have some musicians that you like very much. What are… um…" she tried to recall Mark's ease with bringing the students into a conversation, "What are some of your favorite musicians?"

The students offered names timidly, "The Beatles," "This bloke I saw in Covent Garden one time with a sitar," "The Weird Sisters, they're awesome" "I like Celestina Warbeck – don't laugh! She's good!"

And the angry girl in the front said, very loudly, "Michigan J. Frog."

Calliope glanced at her. "I, ah, can't say I've heard of her…"

"Him," the girl corrected smugly. Other kids started to giggle.

"What kind of music does he perform?"

"Ragtime," she answered, not missing a beat. "I also like Bugs Bunny's symphonies."

Now Calliope was sure the girl was taking the mickey out of her. She nodded, mumbled a noncommittal affirmative, and said, "Well, I noticed that all of the musicians you mentioned are very recent. This is a piece that was written in the fourteenth century, and—"

"But I'd like to hear some ragtime!" the angry girl sat up. "Go on, play it!"

"Miss Santos," Mark warned, "you will respect our visiting instructor."

Calliope's grip on her bow tightened. "I – I can't _play_ ragtime, I haven't learned that."

"Some musician _you_ are, then." Miss Santos answered.

That struck a nerve. She answered coldly, "At least I _am_ a musician."

"Guadalupe!" Mark's tone was shocked. "Please see me in the hallway."

Guadalupe beat him to it. She stood up, glaring at him now with unmasked anger, and strode out of the music room, slamming the door behind her.

"I'll take care of her," Mark told Calliope. "You just keep going, you're doing great."

ooo

Mark couldn't see where Guadalupe had gone, but he knew her favorite haunt – a window overlooking the town. He found her leaning against it, hunched over.

As he approached, she snapped "Leave me alone," in the tone of voice that begs 'I'm not fine, pay attention to me.'

So Mark did. "Why did you storm out of the demonstration?"

"I don't like her."

"Who? Calliope?"

"No. Her coming in here all snooty and posh and looking down on us…"

"Hey," Mark reproached her, "you don't know her, she's not like that at all. You don't like prejudice, why are you judging her?"

Guadalupe fixed him with her large brown eyes. "She's your Luthien, isn't she?"

Blush. He stepped back and let out a sigh through clenched teeth. "It's that obvious?"

"To me, yes! Looking at you smiling at her, taking her coat, _looking_ at her, -"

"But that has nothing to do with –"

"Who do you think you are? You're just a Muggle! She's a witch, do you think she'll even give you the time of day? All witches are the same, she's too high and mighty—"

"Guadalupe."

"—to have anything to do with the likes of _us_. She's not even pretty!"

"Guadalupe – Ana – Santos."

And Guadalupe looked at him, and quailed, because he looked _very_ angry, but his voice was steady as he said, "I'm going to forget what you've just said, because you're obviously upset, and you don't know her like I do. But I don't understand why my relationship with her affects you so much."

Guadalupe slumped. Her eyes, her face, her whole figure became pleading. "Why can't you…" the rest of her sentence was lost in a murmur.

Mark stepped closer. "Sorry, what?"

Then, all at once, she looked up, grabbed him by the shoulders, and kissed him with more force than grace. She didn't let go even when Mark pushed her away, until he was holding her at arm's length with great alarm.

"Okay. _What_. What… That. Does not happen. Do you understand? Does not happen."

"But I love you!"

"Oh, Jesus," Mark pushed his fringe out of his eyes with one hand.

"I've loved you ever since prison, since before I even saw you!"

"You've known me for, what, two months, tops?"

"That's enough!"

"No, it's not."

"Please!"

"No."

"_Why won't you?_"

"Because, _one_, you are way too young for me." He let go of her.

"I'll be seventeen in December!"

"Not helping."

"My dad's like seven years older than my mum!"

"Good for them, but you are very confused and _not_ old enough – to know…" he faltered.

"What, you think I don't know about sex? That I don't know what _these_ are for?" she indicated "those" with both hands. "I was in the pack and –"

"I know, but that's sex, and sex and love aren't the same thing, and, _two_, you're my student and it's wrong."

"But I thought I was special!"

"No, Guadalupe. Teacher-student is never okay. I mean, you're a very special young woman, but – my last point is, nothing, utterly nothing will change the fact that I love Calliope."

She _howled_ – there was no other word for it, a sound between a scream and a wail. "Why?" she asked when she stopped. "Why her?"

"I can't _answer_ that – _Hector!_" the wizard had just entered the hall.

"Hey, is everything all right?"

"No – Hector, can you talk to her for a minute? I'm not – I'm sorry, I can't help you. I'm sorry," he said all that to Guadalupe, who turned away from him, her shoulders shaking.

"Um… what's wrong?" Hector tried.

"I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to talk to anyone, _go away!_"

Mark tenaciously resisted the temptation to put his hands over his ears. The doorbell sounded. "Now who's _that_?" he asked, going downstairs.

Julietta Fell was at the door. She carried a large bag and glared at Mark when he asked, "What's wrong? Can I help you?"

"I don't want to see _you_, I want to see Guadalupe."

"You're welcome to it," he said, "she's in a bad mood though, now."

"I don't care."

Mark looked more closely at Julietta, whose tone was not at all meek or friendly, like usual. Her hair was disheveled and though she didn't appear to have noticed, the left half of her cardigan was missing. "What's the matter?"

"I want to see Guadalupe."

"Okay, fine…" It was easy to find the teenage girl; she was in the exact same place. But the moment that Guadalupe saw Julietta, she asked at once, "Julietta, what is it? Why are you here in the middle of the day?"

Julietta gulped. "It's – it's – I went to the hospital at my lunch break to visit Jan, but he's gone. They didn't move him. He's just gone, like he was never even there. And everyone I talked to, no one could even _remember_ he'd been there, and his things were just tossed into the trash, but no one said that he had been there! I wanted to try and tell Dolores, but she wasn't there and I was so afraid that she wouldn't care, she would just send me back to Father, so I Apparated here."

"You splinched your cardigan…" Hector muttered.

"_I don't care!_" she snapped at him, and then broke down sobbing. "I want my brother, I just want my brother back… I didn't have anywhere else to go…"

Guadalupe hugged her. "I know, I know…" then shot a look at Mark and Hector that screamed _Go away now_.

When the men entered the music room, Calliope broke off her piece to ask, "Was someone at the door?"

"Yes. Class, break up into groups and discuss your favorite songs, and why you like them," Mark said in a rush. Then, when they were occupied (though shooting suspicious glances at their teacher), Mark and Hector (speaking over each other) told Calliope what Julietta had relayed.

"She said that the records were destroyed…" Hector said.

"No, she said that no one remembered him," Mark corrected.

"Turpentine," Calliope muttered.

"Must be…"

"What would he want to do with Jan?" Hector asked. "He's nothing like a supporter of Muggle rights and he's currently helpless!"

"A danger to himself," Mark muttered. "Keep discussing; yes, that means you, Paul." He walked towards the window, deep in thought. At the window he looked back on his students, writing diligently, and the witch and wizard in conversation. '_Are Julietta and Guadalupe finished talking yet? Probably not… they _are_ teenage girls… God, what a day…_'

He thought of what Guadalupe had said and inwardly squirmed. '_Of all the things_…' he looked despairingly to the heavens – and movement caught his eye.

A bird? A jet trail? It was moving very fast, very hard to see in the driving rain.

"Calliope? Calliope?" Hector said.

Mark turned. Calliope was staring blankly into space, as if trying to puzzle out some message. Then she ran into the hallway, crying, "Get in here! Now!"

"What –" Mark started. All the students in the room looked up, alert and alarmed. Whatever had upset Calliope, Mark decided to trust her. "Everyone, lockdown position. Under your desks, _now_." Just as Julietta and Guadalupe entered the room, there was the sound of an explosion. The room shook.

Calliope leaned against the blackboard, her face white, clutching her violin. Everyone else was staring at him to tell them what to do next.

His mind raced. '_Death Eaters – Death Eaters – bringing adult werewolves? Fenrir Greyback? To take back the children? No. No. I will never – wait_—' he ran to the window, ignoring Calliope's cry to stay away from there.

He'd studied the news reports of werewolves and Death Eaters working in conjunction. He saw the tracks of black clouds, crisscrossing the sky like so many fighter jets – werewolves did not do that. Those who had magic eschewed it. Were they here, they'd be visible, and there'd only be one or two Death Eaters to help them. Instead, there were – five? That he counted.

'_Then they're not here for the children. They're here for me_.'

At that moment it seemed to Mark that everything fell away, dissolved around him like he was a cartoon coyote on a crumbling cliff. They were here. Looking for him. They would destroy everyone to get to him. There was only one thing to do.

He took long strides to the door, turned looked at Calliope, Hector, and at his students – his beloved students – and commanded, "Nobody move."

Then he opened the door, left the room, and _bolted_.

He took the side staircase – small and inconspicuous – and was soon racing out across the lawn in his blazer and loafers, slipping on the muddy grass. The rain made it impossible to see – he could hear the destruction behind him and yelled, turning back, "Catch me if you can, you mad bastards!"

He ran and – his eyes were playing tricks on him, he thought he saw Calliope run past him, some fifty yards away.

There was a copse of trees on the grounds. He ran to that, praying to every saint that he was right and he had not just abandoned his students to recapture. But what else could he do? He was a Muggle. He ran.

He stopped in the woods, turning around to see if the Death Eaters were pursuing him – all the lights were off in the school, he couldn't see anything. He swore repeatedly, and stood there in the driving rain, trying to count the minutes passing. His eyes spotted someone running from the school, straight towards him. She approached in the rain; it was Calliope. "What's going on?" he called to her.

"Hell if I know," she answered, looking behind her. "But they're looking for some bloke named Princeton –"

"Not the students?"

"No, they were starting to interrogate the students when I left."

"Why did you leave?"

"Look, I don't even know how _I_ got there! I was not going to let them take me again –"

A chill went down Mark's spine, unrelated to the rain. "Calliope?" he asked.

She gave him a sidelong glare. "Excuse me?" She didn't know him, she had amnesia, she didn't respond to her own name – even her speech was wrong, and he tried to quell his rising panic.

"Benedicte?" he asked tentatively.

"How do you know my name?" she asked, her silver eyes narrowing.

He would _not_ lose Calliope, not now. He gripped her face in his hands. "Calliope, listen to me, come back to me."

She was twisting to get away, but he looked her dead in the eyes, and said her name again. Her face slackened, she gave a great twitch, and then lost her balance. He caught her, afraid he had somehow made things worse..

"Mark – what on earth – how did I get out here?" She lifted herself up, and for a minute they were uncomfortably close.

"I have no idea," he told her sincerely. He almost kissed her, just to hear that her voice was her own again.

She held up her right hand. Absurdly, she was clutching the bow of her violin, and her instrument in her other hand. "How—"

"Mr. Printzen!" Another figure, bolting from the school at high speed, reached the copse. Guadalupe didn't even seem winded. "Are you okay? Why did you just vanish like that?"

"They're after _me_, Lupe, thank you for yelling my name across the lawn. What are _you_ doing—"

Another explosion sounded. Mark rushed forward to see – It was the entrance hall, which as far as he'd known had been empty. The sound of the explosion muffled the "pop" that sounded when Julietta and Hector Apparated behind them.

"Of course," Mark turned. "Are the students safe?"

"So far as I could tell. It's _you_ they're after," Julietta stammered. In the air beside her, Hector drew out the runes with his wand to summon the Magical Law Enforcement.

"Then we have to leave," Calliope said flatly in answer to Julietta. "Mark, you, especially—"

"No, I can't leave my students!"

"What will you do, trade yourself for them? Mark, you're smarter than that, and I would never _let_ you!"

"What do you suggest, then?" Yelled Guadalupe, over Mark's protests and the sound of another explosion.

"Done!" Hector announced. "They'll be here any minute."

"Not soon enough," A note of paranoia was in Calliope's voice. She gripped her violin until her knuckles were white, and said, "_Portus_," her eyes closed. It glowed blue.

She opened her eyes, grabbed Mark's hand, and forced it to grip the bow. "Hold on, everybody take hold!"

"But where is it going?" asked Hector, who nevertheless took hold.

The Portkey violin trembled, turned a vivid cobalt, and teleported them out of the copse.

They landed in a forest clearing, fallen over on top of each other, covered in mud almost at once.

Hector looked up, and gave a dismayed moan.

Guadalupe asked, "Where are we?"

Calliope sat on the ground, clutching her head, and trying to cradle the violin to her. She looked up. The trees were thick around them; there were absolutely no markers of civilization. But it was her Portkey; everyone was looking to her.

She cleared her throat, her breath making a fog. "I… I don't know…"

ooooo

*appropriate dramatic music* If you may have noticed, I am a bit crazy for cliffhangers. And UST. Lovely how well those two tie together.

Thus begins a sequence of chapters I have been really, really looking forward to sharing. Expect a more regular update schedule in the future. And feel free to leave a review!


	23. The Voice of the Dead

The Voice of the Dead

A/N: Thanks to **The Elven-Spear **for your review – which actually inspired me to rewrite some scenes entirely, so thank you for the inspiration, as well. Sadly, there won't be much more of the werewolf children for a while… I hope, though, that the ensuing action will be gripping enough to make up for it. Enjoy!

ooooo

"Well, that's _great_," Guadalupe snapped. "Really great. Boy, that sure helps."

"I got us away, we can figure out where we are later," Calliope stammered, looking down.

"Fat lot of good that'll do if we starve," the girl snarled.

"Guadalupe," Mark said warningly, "Now's not the time. Calm down. Can we establish exactly where we are? Should we try that teleport-key again?"

Calliope, Hector, and Julietta looked at each other. None of them looked well; especially not Calliope. "I don't think so;" Hector replied slowly. "We're out of danger for now, and that's the main thing."

"Does anyone else hear something?" Julietta asked. People fell silent, but Hector shook his head. "No, I can't…"

"Be quiet," Calliope said, leaning against a tree, gripping her head.

"Maybe one of us should go for help –"

"But we could be _anywhere_!"

"How do we even know we're a safe distance from the School?"

"_Listen to that!_" Lupe shouted, and when everyone quieted, they heard it: a rumbling noise, like the sound of hooves, getting closer and closer.

"Horses?" Mark asked, turning.

"Oh _no_," Hector whispered.

"What?" Guadalupe asked.

And then they appeared: racing through the forest, thundering, moving too fast for any one to be clearly distinguished. The earth shook.

The humans gripped each others' hands and looked around in fear. All except for Mark. He stood with his mouth open in shock and wonder.

"I don't believe it," he said, but it was inaudible over the thunder of hooves.

Centaurs.

They lined up in formation, circling around them, and – now Mark jumped – pointing arrows at them.

The last centaur ran into place, and the forest fell silent. It was Mark who began to say, "Um, hello?"

One centaur, a male with powerful, broad shoulders and a chestnut body with white blazes, stepped forward. "Who are you, and why are you trespassing in our forest?"

"Well," Mark looked up – the centaur towered over him. "We didn't know it was yours. Did we?"

"No, we didn't –" Hector started quickly.

"This forest has been ours since ancient days. You think you can just enter at your whim?" the centaur sneered.

"We don't!" Hector insisted. "We were attacked, we're on the run, and looking for a place to stay."

"And you think you can stay with us?" Another centaur – it sounded like a female – asked on the other side of the circle.

"I didn't realize we were an _inn_," said the first centaur.

"It's not like that at all!" Mark argued. "We're in danger –"

"So you bring the danger to us. Typical humans."

"Hold on that, Fortinbras. I think they're telling the truth." It was the female centaur again. "There are some who are not full grown. And one of them is ill."

Mark turned and saw Calliope, leaning against the tree and covering her face. She did indeed look sick.

"Bah!" Fortinbras dismissed them. "Humans are all the same. If we give them a bit of hospitality now, they'll seize on it – better to stop it here, before it grows like a parasite."

Mark said hotly, "But we're telling you, we just need directions and a place to stay, and we'll be gone!"

"You say that, but that turns quickly into you, leeching off of us –"

"Doesn't sacred hospitality mean anything to you?"

That got Fortinbras' attention; his eyes flashed at Mark, and even Calliope looked up to say, "Don't attack him, he doesn't know any better—"

"Hospitality on the likes of _you_ would be a waste," Fortinbras sneered.

"What if I gave you my word, we wouldn't need anything but directions, and then we'd be gone?"

"The word of a human? You know what that's worth?" And Fortinbras spat, right at Mark's feet.

And then things would have gotten ugly, except that a cold voice rang out through the clearing, even above Fortinbras' voice, "_And what about the life of a human_?"

Everyone turned. It was Calliope, still bent and against the tree, but looking up at Fortinbras and her silver eyes were flashing lightning, and she said in a low and cold voice "_It was twenty years ago, to this very week, that a human Apparated into these woods, not far from here. And she was alone. And she was frightened. And she was dying. And you found her, Fortinbras, you with your friends Hart and Verena, you found her and she was unconscious but not yet dead, Fortinbras, and you knew it, but you said to abandon her, because she was only a human, and you came back later and used magic to bury her, to hide your violation of sacred hospitality against a dying girl, and you thought no one would know_…"

She stood up straight now, and Fortinbras was actually backing up, backing away from this skinny woman who was telling him "_But _I _know. I say to you, at the turning of the year, in the name of the girl whose name you buried, you shall welcome us, you shall protect us, and you shall lead us to the Place of Holly, because a girl died alone because of you and you can give her _nothing_, Fortinbras. You will give her blessing to these humans_. _Is that understood?_"

The centaur's front legs had buckled under him. He was all astonishment, and just barely managed to stammer out, "Yes – yes – understood."

She nodded, casting her eyes down, and then covered her face with her hands. When she lifted her face, she was only Calliope again, and now it was her turn to gape in confusion at Fortinbras.

"What? Sir – um – centaur sir, why are you – that is, I assure you, _quite_ unnecessary…" She took a few steps backwards, and leaned against a tree. "Is anyone else dizzy?"

Fortinbras clip-clopped backwards, as other centaurs started to circle around him. They spoke in a language of their own – it sounded a bit like a throatier, fricative-laden version of Gaelic. The humans seemed to have been forgotten.

"What is going on?" Julietta asked. "Are we safe?"

"Dunno what the hell she just said, but I think that it got them good and confused," Guadalupe answered. "Maybe we're safe for now…"

"We are agreed." A grey-coated female centaur said. "You will come with us, and have our protection for the night. There is a place north of here that humans call 'Hollywyck' – do you know it?"

"Yes," Hector answered, hardly daring to believe their luck. "It's our home."

"Then we will take you there."

The centaur herd moved around them, and the humans started, shakily, to walk, to keep up. Across a long stretch of forest (Calliope kept looking back at the place that they had first arrived at), they marched, clinging close to each other, moving with the herd, but distinctly separate. They were surrounded on all sides by centaurs, eighteen hands high at the smallest, many holding bows, a slow-moving avalanche of bay, grey, black, roan, and all other coat colors. The avalanche kicked up clouds of dust, and ground leaves. The heavy air of the forest, cold and damp, sunk in around them.

Only Guadalupe was unafraid, striding at the head of the group of humans. Mark had a sense that she would gladly venture farther afield if the close press of centaurs didn't prevent her.

At a large forest clearing, the herd thinned out, allowing the humans to enter. More than one centaur eyed Guadalupe suspiciously as she stepped onto the campground for the centaurs.

The three humans with magic felt a deep calm settle onto them as soon as they stepped onto the campground – here was magic, settled deep into the roots of the land, for one year at least. It was magic that worked with the land, and not against it, like human enchantments. But it served. It was much warmer in the campground than outside. The fires that the centaurs built served to dispel much of the autumn damp.

Calliope moved to sit on the ground, but Cumae stopped her. "No. Witch, I want you to come with me. We must talk."

"My name is Calliope," she replied, annoyed.

"Calliope," the centaur translated the name carefully. "'Beautiful voice.'"

"Yes. _Not_ 'Voice of the Dead.'"

"Appropriate, nonetheless. This way."

"You're going to ask me about what I said."

"Yes." Something in Cumae's tone was final, and Calliope fell silent. But that allowed the sounds of the forest to enter into her consciousness. A bird's trill. The rustle of leaves. The retreating sounds of the community behind them.

They stopped in a clearing. Cumae tapped at the ground with a hoof. "Now. I want you to calm yourself."

"Me? I'm perfectly calm."

"No, you're not. Just breathe with me."

Another bird sang. Calliope focused on that song, and breathed deeply. "Am I calm enough now?"

"It'll do. Now. How did you know to say what you did?"

"I don't know."

"You do not have the air of a Seer." Cumae spoke with an air of detached curiosity.

"That's because I'm not."

"You appeared to be in a trance…"

"I was tired, I had a bad headache. I honestly only half-remember what I said."

"Do you still have that headache?"

"It's going away. I thought that it was because of the Portkey. I had to work without a wand to make it. I was just trying to keep everyone safe."

"So you were the one who brought them here. You who _knew_ about the girl who died here."

"I did not know!"

"Then why else choose this place?"

"I didn't. I wanted to go to Hollywyck – that's my family's ancestral land. It's north of where we were, in Scotland."

Cumae frowned. "Scotland, that's one of your nations, isn't it?"

"Yes. I wanted to take us to Scotland, but my magic – concentration – whatever you want to call it – it wasn't strong enough."

"Do you think it's a coincidence that you brought them here, to the place where this girl died?"

"No… I … I don't know."

"Have you ever consciously tried to communicate with the dead?"

"Absolutely not!"

"There is no need to get upset."

"That's easy for…" Calliope forcibly strangled the next phrase.

"That's what?"

"I said that is not quite how I see it. I find necromancy abhorrent."

"I think that, unaware, you may be connected with the world of the dead. However, I cannot tell. It may be a mystery beyond my ken." The centaur shrugged. "Come. Let us go back." She appeared to be uninterested in the subject any further.

Calliope returned to the camp to see the centaur's hospitality in action. They prepared sleeping places and new huts with excellent efficiency. And another centaur, whom Cumae called Harcels, cast leaves of ash on the fire. Calliope sat down, ignorant of how Fortinbras immediately skirted around her, to avoid her sight. He needn't have worried; Calliope was watching a debate unfold between Harcels and Guadalupe (representing Julietta) about the merits of Tarot cards versus divination by tree leaves.

Fortinbras, trying to not attract Calliope's notice, called Mark over to him and took him aside, across the fire.

"What is your name?" asked the centaur.

"Mark Printzen."

"You are a teacher." It was not a question.

"Yes, I am."

"And you cannot use magic the way that the others do."

""Um… yeah. How did you – really, what gave it away?"

The centaur turned away to walk contemplatively "I could see. Centaurs can see… in a way that humans have forgotten. We can see the lines of power, and authority. We can sense alterations, too. The girl is a werewolf, isn't she?"

"… Yes. That makes sense."

The centaur turned to look then, surprised.

"Well," Mark went on, "Centaurs live in the forest, and werewolves hang out in forests, too. Obviously centaur evolution needed to accommodate that, because you won't last long if you can't distinguish a predator." '_I am talking about evolutionary theory with a centaur_,' he thought. '_I am awesome_.'

Fortinbras blinked. "That is true. But. There is more to it. Werewolves are not natural."

"I guess not?"

"Do you know where werewolves come from?"

"Um… somewhere deep in the annals of French literature?"

"No. Werewolves are an invention of man."

Mark held back from making a comment about _other_ inventions of man, such as Santa Claus, and just said, "I'm listening."

"Many, many ages ago – when even the constellations were aligned differently – humans sought power."

"Gasp."

Fortinbras glared at him.

"What? This is not news." '_Mark,_' he thought, '_Mouthing off to a guy that's part draft horse, part Tarzan, is not good evolutionary practice._' "Please, go on."

"In their wars, those who could use magic were greatly valued. But those who could not use magic – well, they had less to offer. And there were more of them. So one tribe of humans blended bloodlust and animalism and moon magic, hoping to create a perfect warrior, a way to give battle magic to…"

"Muggles."

"That is what humans call their own, who cannot channel magic directly."

"Werewolves were a way to give magic to Muggles. And it worked."

"It worked, yes. To create creatures of rage, who could devour friend as easily as foe, who lost all human consciousness at the kind light of the full moon. And werewolves always seek out humans, especially, for prey. Only a human could create something with that desire. That is why werewolves are not natural. And we can distinguish those who carry that same taint, generation after generation after generation."

Mark let this sink in for a minute. Then he finally said, "Yep, sounds like humans, all right. But you don't need to worry about the werewolf in our group," he added. "She's safe. I'll vouch for her."

"I should think she can vouch for herself." Fortinbras glanced at something over Mark's shoulder.

"Well, obviously, yes, but if you need a – I don't know – a teacher's recommendation, that's what I'm here for. She's more than just a wolf, whatever you might see."

Fortinbras nodded. "Does _she_ know that?"

"Of course she knows that, and what are you looking –" he turned. "Oh."

Guadalupe was standing about twenty feet beyond Mark. Fortinbras nodded to her one last time, and then clip-clopped away, in what was probably a silent gait for a centaur. When the centaur was out of range of hearing, Guadalupe walked towards Mark, stopping when she was right in front of him.

He resisted the temptation to say, "What do you have to say now?" A teacher was always patient, always understanding, never petty.

Ideally.

Also ideally, the student would say something after a while… He prompted her with, "So, you wanted to talk?"

She looked up from her intense study of the forest floor to meet his eyes. "Mr. Printzen, I – I realized, after what – I really, really acted like a baby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But I – I really love you. You inspire me so much. From the start – I know it's hopeless, but I want you to know how important you are." She shrugged uneasily, looking up. "That's all. And – and just, the thought of you pining after someone who doesn't realize what – she's not worth it, y'know? It just makes me angry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

Mark paused before answering. He wished there was a complete primer on appropriate contact between teachers and students. A hug, two hands on the shoulder, and a firm handshake all fell into "appropriate yet inappropriate." High-five or fist bump was right out. He put one hand on her shoulder.

"Guadalupe," he said, "you are one of the bravest people I know. Of all the ways you show it, not least is how you approached me to try and make amends for a – pretty disastrous first attempt. I say this with all sincerity: I wish I had your courage."

She looked like she was taking some strength from what he was saying. He went on, "You are a passionate, strong, beautiful young woman. There's a guy out there, somewhere, who will see all that, and will love you for it – love you for what you've suffered and for how you've borne it. I'm not that guy, but believe me, right now, he's out there. And he has no idea how lucky he is."

One corner of Lupe's mouth twitched upward. "You mean it?"

"Yes. Now, let's go back – we won't talk about this – but remember."

She mumbled something, which sounded affirmative.

They returned to camp. A fire was going, and a few centaurs were skinning freshly caught rabbits, and ignoring Hector, who was simultaneously grossed and engrossed.

When the sun had set fully, and the moon was up, after dinner, a distinct silence hovered in the air. The humans were staring at each other, feeling more out of place than ever.

So Mark stood up, saying, "I do beg your pardon. I've just realized that we are neglecting _our_ part in hospitality."

The eyes of every centaur and human in the place were fixed on him. He cleared his throat.

"May I, perhaps, offer a story?"

He looked at Cumae and Fortinbras. Cumae nodded.

"Great! Any requests?"

"_Not_ Beren and Luthien," came Guadalupe's voice from next to him.

"Oh – oh, you're sure?" he asked. "Well… why don't _you_ tell a story, Miss Santos?"

"Me?" Guadalupe flinched at the thought, staring up at him.

"Yes, you."

She curled up her knees. "But I'm not good at them, not like you are."

Harcels, from across the fire, chortled. "We centaurs don't hold much stock in tales of fiction. Too entirely changeable, too dizzy, too false. We prefer memory and auto—what's your word?"

"Autobiography?" Guadalupe suggested.

"Yes. That. Too many syllables for a simple idea. Of course, if you're too afraid to tell your story to a herd of centaurs, we understand…"

"_Hey_." Guadalupe got to her feet. She seemed to be warming up to the idea. "Once you've run with Fenrir Greyback for a while, nothing is going to scare you."

"Fenrir Greyback. We know of that werewolf. Was he your sire?"

Guadalupe folded her arms. "He was the alpha of my pack, but let's _not_ talk about that. Um – hey, have you guys ever thought of playing football?"

Football was a subject where Guadalupe felt perfectly, sweetly at home. She dashed across the clearing, sketching out what a football pitch could look like, and explaining the best games she'd played in, or seen, to the centaurs. They listened, a little surprised at her suggestion that they would like it. Guadalupe returned to the human's camp and started to talk about her own history with soccer, which before she knew it, turned into the awful story of how she was captured by the pack, during practice, as abrupt in the telling as it had been in real life. But she passed quickly over the details, as if the day wasn't important.

Somehow the story began to turn around her friend Noemie, and her life story, from France to England to the pack, and the friendship she'd offered to Guadalupe, and her fearlessness. Then, the story continued past her death, and Guadalupe's capture by the Ministry, but the heart of the tale lay with a girl who'd been dead for months.

And the centaurs clip-clopped their hooves on the ground in a rough applause, because they heard the truth in her story, and responded to it. She was blushing by the time she sat down, her throat sore.

Before the applause died down, Hector leaned forward and tapped Mark on the shoulder, whispering, "Mark – earlier – what Calliope did and said—"

"What about me?" Calliope asked, catching her name.

"What if that was Benedicte?" Hector continued. "What if she died right here, in this forest?"

"Why are you sharing with him and not me?" Calliope demanded, a bit too loudly. A silence fell.

"Do you have something to share?" Cumae asked, in a tone that suggested she still thought Calliope an odd curiosity.

Calliope stood up, and mockingly held up her violin, cleanly broken in two from the effect of being a Portkey. "Nothing to share from me. Julietta, why don't you try?"

Julietta stood up at Calliope's words, almost as if against her own volition. She clasped her hands behind her – and then paused for a very long time. Finally (after much polite coughing from the human camp), she sang "Ave Maria."

She chose the Franz Schubert version of the prayer – one written by a Muggle, which surprised Mark at once. Her _a capella _voice, trained by years of liturgical choir, was sweet and strong.

The centaur's applause for her shook the ground. They requested she sing again.

She obliged with "Dona Nobis Pacem," a better cover all around, as her voice no longer quavered with shyness, and she blushed pink to hear the applause thundering.

"Well done, very well done," said Cumae, stirring the flames with a long stick. "Like all good things that live, we centaurs like to hear music – not that we ourselves are great singers. A little melody like that is pleasurable."

"Well, we have more _important_ arts to cultivate," Harcels began, before Cumae nickered at him for rudeness.

"Sure," Mark agreed. "Like divination, and of course healing."

"Of course?" Cumae asked him what he meant by that.

"Well, I know about Chiron. _He_ was a great healer, right? Sagittarius." He pointed vaguely to the sky, aware that at any minute he would probably commit some grave insult.

"Yes, Chiron, you call him," Cumae agreed. "A great centaur. Only one of our many illustrious names – and he was the only one to ever use a wand."

"You mean the Rod of Asclepius?" Hector ventured to ask.

Cumae glanced at him. "Asclepius the human was Chiron's student, so if he inherited the wand it wasn't the Rod of Asclepius _yet_. It had many owners… but it was a poisonous wand, cursed by a serpent-god…"

Maybe she thought that was a pleasant note to end the evening on, or else she saw how tired the humans were, because Cumae promptly told them it was time to go to sleep. The five humans, woven round by magic for warmth and safety, settled on the ground in willow cabins to sleep.


	24. Hollyhocks

**Hollyhocks**

A/N: Boy oh boy am I looking forward to this chapter. To one particular scene in this chapter, which **The Elven-Spear** inspired me to rewrite. I've rewritten that particular bit something like five times, and I honestly think this latest iteration is the best. So thanks to **The Elven-Spear**. You'll know which scene it is. (Hint: the chapter's named for it).

It is also decidedly odd to talk about Halloween in February. As always, reviews are very much appreciated.

ooooo

None of the humans slept very long or very well. By dawn they were all awake – not thanks to the centaurs' timekeeping, nor out of any sense of constant vigilance – except for Guadalupe, who had woken up in the night and been unable to sleep again, surrounded by the woods on all sides.

Mark woke himself up with a fit of sneezing and coughing. When people asked what the matter was, he said, "Please, don't' worry, I've – _cough_ – had this all my life – can't spend too much time in – _achoo_ – nature, the dirt, it turns against me."

"Why didn't you mention it earlier?" Calliope demanded.

"I thought it wouldn't act up! It's autumn, I thought – _achoo_ –"

"God bless you. Remind me, when we can, I'll brew up something to help you."

"_Cough cough –_ thanks."

Julietta lay on the ground, her face white. When Guadalupe finally pestered her for what was wrong, she admitted over breakfast (berries and nuts) that her spine was giving her trouble.

_That_ managed to pique the centaurs' interest. The finer healers among them inquired about her scoliosis, and Cumae, with Julietta's permission, ran her big, knotted hands across the girl's shoulders and down her back. Harcels arrived, his tail flicking nervously, and he gave her a stone bowl full of a rough tea. She took it politely, drinking it to the dregs (and trying not to make faces). When the centaurs had finished their ministrations, and the humans were finished with their breakfast, the sun was just barely up.

With sunrise, the centaurs bid the humans farewell. The humans attempted to thank them as graciously as they could, but the centaurs would accept no thanks. Only Cumae led the humans to the edge of the centaurs' terrain. She nodded at each of the humans in turn, but gave Calliope a long, hard look. "Take great care, you with the Voice of the Dead. There is much more to be done."

Without another word, she turned around and left the camp. Calliope turned on her heel, acted as if that cryptic good-bye meant nothing, and arranged the transportation of the five of them to Hollywyck.

Disapparating and Side-Along Apparating in turn, the full grown wizards brought the three others to a ring of trees, farther north from where they had made camp. Eager as children, the two Ollivanders led the party through the trees, and invited them cordially through a dense holly hedge.

On the other side of the hedge, Hollywyck greeted them, serene and welcoming. Scurry appeared before them, giving a deep curtsy. "How may we serve you today?"

ooo

Scurry had never been so happy. The family and guests were brought inside, and sat down to a breakfast of eggs, toast, and tea. While they ate, Scurry opened up room after room upstairs in a symphony of cleanliness.

Not that most of the guests appreciated the effort. They'd barely finished breakfast before they pulled themselves upstairs to sleep. By the time they woke up it was time for late lunch, and a bath, and a fresh change of clothes. It was also time for Calliope to lead Mark to the potion laboratory – a small room, overlooking the conservatory, with high windows to let out the fumes – and fix him something for his allergy. She consulted "When the Sniffles Come to Call: 200 Easy Potions for All Household Maladies," by Castor Codliver. For the fifteen minutes that she put it together, Mark asked (still coughing) about the ingredients and procedure. What was the purpose of that retort there, was it _supposed_ to look like a cloud of blue steam? The answer was yes: the latest addition had finalized the potion.

"What was that last ingredient?" Mark asked.

"Powdered chameleon lungs."

He blanched. "You know, this will probably wear off soon –"

"Oh, no. Not when I've already gone through all this effort." She moved the steam in the retort to a small ceramic device.

"Looks – _cough cough_— like an inhaler," Mark said. He took it from her hand, screwed his eyes shut, and took a dose. He blinked and the redness cleared from his eyes and nose. "Phooey," he admitted, "You know your stuff! Thank you so much, Calliope."

"Keep the inhaler." She leaned against the counter, smiling at him. "I'm glad it works. Now, should I round up the others to talk about returning to London, or…"

"Actually—" his heart leapt into his mouth, and he had a sudden funny feeling his asthma was going to recur again. "Can I, um, talk to you, please, just for a sec?"

"Here?" She asked as she rinsed out the cauldron and set it out to dry.

"Is there anyplace else you'd like to, um, go?"

She glanced out the window. "The garden."

"The garden! Sounds perfect."

"Give me a minute."

"Of course. Not too long… we do have a, a return to make. To London."

Calliope gave him a curious look, as if to ask if he was all right. But he took the time to run to the bathroom, make sure he looked presentable, and calm himself down. He didn't have his pep team by him for encouragement, Linus wasn't going to interrupt them. It was just the two of them.

He entered the garden. She was already on one of the paths. She took his hand and led him to a corner filled with hollyhocks. They towered overhead, blocking the house from sight, swaying in warm pinks and oranges in the wind.

"If we're going to talk, let's do it here," she told him, sitting on a bench. "I always loved this place. I could always hide here, no matter how tall I grew."

Mark nodded, feeling that hollyhocks were the most beautiful flowers in creation. And she was so beautiful.

"I feel very… Calliope here," she finished, as he sat down next to her.

He noticed how tense she was, how she looked over her shoulder towards the house. "Are you… trying to hide from something?"

She sighed. "From Benedicte. I get dizzy here, in Hollywyck, more easily than I should – and I keep thinking, what I said yesterday – that dead girl I mentioned? I think she was… Benedicte. That was her death. At least, Hector thinks so. I don't remember it myself, so…" she shrugged noncommittally, rubbing her hands together. Humorlessly, she added, "That would be hilarious, wouldn't it, if I accidentally found her after twenty years…"

"What are the odds of that, though?"

"Better than you'd think. I created the Portkey; she's getting stronger in my head; I pick a random place, of course I pick the place where _she_ was, when she –" she swallowed. "Today, Mark. Today was her birthday, and her deathday."

"You don't know that for sure…"

"I _do_ know. I know it as surely as I know my own birthday, or… I shouldn't know it, but I do." Her chin rested on her wrists; she covered her mouth with her hand. "I spoke with the Voice of the Dead."

"Only according to a centaur."

"But she _knew_, Mark. I feel – this is a – everything might change today. I might lose myself completely."

"I won't let that happen."

"I know." She looked at him, her silver eyes surprising him for the thousandth time. "Mark, please – I want you to stay with me. Even when we return to London, no matter what my brother says, stay close to me. You help me – stay in balance. Oh, I can't explain it – will you?"

Mark opened and shut his mouth several times before he finally nodded. "Yes. Gladly. Always."

She smiled at his affirmation. For a moment longer they sat in silence, as she was lost in a memory of her own. As for Mark, he was almost paralyzed. What she'd said – maybe –

"I am not afraid," he said under his breath.

She glanced at him. "What did you say?"

"I am not afraid," he repeated, "of today. And you don't have to be afraid, either."

"Well, not as long as I've got you."

"No – well, yes, but – no, Calliope, you're stronger than Benedicte is. Looking at you – sitting with you – I _know_, I'm amazed by how clever, and kind, and brave you are. By how beautiful you are. I've – I love you."

She stared at him. He went on, taking her hand, the words getting easier, and he wasn't even blushing, "I know I'm just a Muggle, but you've – you've bewitched me entirely, without even trying. What I'm trying to say is, I think you're amazing. I think you're lovable in every way, and an absolutely amazing person. I, just – I love you, Calliope."

Well, she hadn't broken away, running or screaming. That was a good sign.

But she didn't say anything either.

To Calliope there were no words. She stared at Mark, her friend, smiling calmly, rapturously at her. All was changed, changed utterly.

She pulled her hands in from his – there was the sudden cold. "How long has this been…?"

"I, well… I had my first idea the night that you left Boston. I couldn't think straight, trying to imagine Boston without you. That probably explains – a lot. But I knew it for sure – with every part of me – the first time I came _here_," he gestured to the house, "and you were waiting for me. I knew."

"Why tell me _now_?"

"You need to hear it. I've been trying to tell you for months!"

She tried to repeat, '_Months_,' but somehow speech didn't work for her any more.

"The time was never right. You should have known before."

"Months?"

"Yes. This didn't start overnight, Calliope."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I – I – I'm going to have to think – about this – stop looking at me like that… _Don't_ – you've changed everything." And she stepped back, turned, and hurried into the house like a sleepwalker, looking back once, to see Mark among the roses and hollyhocks.

'_Think about this. Yes, Calliope, think, as if you're an automaton with no soul, _think_, that's all you ever do!_'

She found herself in her room – her pale blue wallpapered room from childhood – and she sank onto her bed. '_Oh god. Why can't you just give him an answer_?'

She thought. About what she felt towards him. About how she'd dreamt about him, lately. About how warm his hands were. About the illusion-Mark, his threats. About how she was sure she had forgotten something important to tell him. About how he was a Muggle. About what a horrible person she was to think that.

Then she remembered his words. She was beautiful. She was smart. She was lovable in every way. '_He thinks the world of me. And to be loved by someone like Mark – that's really something. That's pretty amazing_.'

And in the garden, Mark loved Calliope, and loved her looking into the hollyhocks, loved her as he closed his eyes and said her name. And he loved her and felt famished, starved, desperately alone.

"_Tag! You're it!_"

Just as simple as that, a lovely game of tag, running in circles over the lawns and gardens of Hollywyck. It was an autumn day, a bright Halloween – perfect for a game of tag.

"_Callie! Callie!_"

– no, this wasn't a game, the chase was in earnest, Benedicte was chasing her, trying to snatch her up – No – someone was chasing _Benedicte_ too – suddenly there was no joy in the day – where was she, she had to get inside – she ran towards the wing of the library, not daring to look back, hearing Benedicte's voice (But how did she know what Benedicte sounded like? She didn't…) yelling "_Callie, run! Run, and LISTEN!_"

Calliope woke up with a start. She was lying in bed; she had just closed her eyes for a moment, and fallen asleep. She sat up, orienting herself again. That nightmare… was just a nightmare.

But _listen_.

The command stayed with her. What did she have to listen to?  
>And the wing of the library. She had to go there. She felt it as powerful as a chain…<p>

"All right, Benedicte," she said aloud, "But I'm doing this because I choose to, not just because… oh, hell." She gave up talking to herself and went to the library.

Julietta's cards were laid out on the table, but she herself was sitting in front of the radio, twiddling the dials.

'_Listen_,' Calliope thought. She asked, casually, "How is your back?"

"Oh," the girl half-turned to see her. "Feeling _ever_ so much better, thank you for asking. Those centaurs… quite sharp, aren't they?"

"Yes. Er. What are you looking for?"

Julietta's fingers only left the dial for a moment. "Oh! Just the news channel. I mean, the attack on the school has got to be reported –and Mr. Printzen's trial was supposed to be today. I want to know if they've found out anything else."

"A public service announcement?"

"What about a radio drama?" Calliope turned at the voice. Guadalupe was reclining on a couch nearby, looking through a large illustrated guide to tropical birds. "There's quite a few of those I like.

"Excuse me," Calliope asked her, "but would you find Mark and Hector and bring them here?"

Guadalupe gave Calliope a sidelong, thoughtful glare, stood up slowly, and then said, "Fine." As she left, Calliope got the very strong sense that the girl didn't like her.

When Guadalupe returned with Mark and Hector, Julietta had just found the Wizarding Wireless Network, or WWN. A commercial for quartz cauldrons wrapped up just as the bright jingle – familiar to all the wizards in the room – sounded.

"We are just _minutes_ away from the start of the trial that has the entire wizarding world talking. In the midst of attacks from You-Know-Who, an insidious new threat has been perceived, and today's the day, folks, we've been promised all shall be… illuminated." A bright male voice paused dramatically. "I'm Brian Flummery, here outside of the courtroom of the Wizengamot, and it is _quite_ a crowd out here! Excitement is high today…"

"What are they talking about?" Calliope asked aloud. "What about our disappearance?"

The radio announcer went on, "… A frenzy of activity, as – yes! Here come the defendants, followed by the prosecutor and plaintiffs—"

Mark checked his watch. "This makes no sense. _My_ trial should have been the one going on right now…"

"There was no other trial scheduled for today, none that were nearly as high-profile as yo—" began Julietta, before Hector shushed her. Brian Flummery was talking excitedly.

"Ah! Here come Mr. Printzen and Mr. Dupont now – Mr. Printzen! Is it true that you regularly get 'hammered,' as the saying goes, at the bar of the American Embassy?"

To the astonishment of all, Mark's voice answered, in an insouciant tone, "Yeah, I like a good drink now and again. So what?"

"Mark, don't humor him," Andrew's voice was heard, chiding, anxious. "That only happened once—"

"What about the allegation," pressed the correspondent, "that you have – perhaps – molested several of the children in your care at the Agnes Stidolph School?"

Andrew began to cry out in outrage, but Mark's voice cut through. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I don't pretend to be clean as the driven snow here, but I do not touch little kids, awright? That's just sick. Besides, I prefer my full-grown women – _if_ ya know what I mean. _And_ I think ya do."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Printzen," the correspondent appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh. "Now back to the list of judges, ooh, do I see Eliezar Smith?"

"Who _was_ that?" Mark burst out. Calliope lowered the radio volume.

"I believe that was Brian Flummery, a Wizarding Wireless Network correspondent who—"

"No, Hector, I mean who was _that_ answering my questions with – do I really sound like that?"

"As far as your voice goes, yes," Calliope answered.

"But that was a New York accent, not a Boston one—"

"Wait!" Guadalupe, who was sitting on the floor, reached out to turn up the volume again. The correspondent was saying, "—have both been _very_ inaccessible since this process began. Indeed, Miss Ollivander's ability to testify clearly or perceive reality at all has been severely called into question. Now maybe they'll give us a word. Miss Ollivander—"

"My sister has no comment to make at this time." Sharp, pointed, the voice was definitely Linus, but his words were cold with wrath.

Flummery's voice faltered. "Well… so much for that – but Miss Ollivander is _looking_ quite put together, whatever may be going on between her ears, in a stylish pink blouse and black skirt with black over-robe…"

"A pink blouse? Pink?" Calliope asked.

"I think Flummery just came back from fashion week in Paris, so his mind is still probably '_à la mode_,' as the French say," Hector explained.

"Someone out there is impersonating me," Calliope said, flatly, as if testing out the idea, "but they must not know me very well, to wear pink."

"Rest of the outfit's spot-on, though." Guadalupe muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm just saying, that's what you're wearing right now! Only grey. Maybe you're predictable."

"Or it's a deliberate choice," Mark said, half to himself. "Pink, at least for Muggles, is the color for little girls, princesses, people who need protection."

"_I_ like pink…" Julietta mumbled.

"No, that's fine, I'm not dismissing you, but it's the connotation. Like – like a New York accent connotes a thug, a brute, at least _that_ New York accent does. It's like a film. They're casting parts, putting costumes together, to tell a story…"

"But who are 'they'?"

"And what story?" Hector and Guadalupe spoke over each other.

"We'll just have to listen and learn…" Mark trailed off.

"What story down there awaits its end?" Calliope asked. She sat down suddenly. "Scurry? I think we'll all need a drink."


	25. The Murder of Joey Reed

**The Murder of Joey Reed**

A/N: I am so sick of writing trial scenes. This was one of the hardest chapters to put together. Here, have it ahead of schedule, with a helping of names that are derived from both Classical Mythology and that one book in American Lit class that nobody read.

ooooo

Everyone settled in comfortably as the self-important music swelled, and the announcer said, "October 31st, 1996. Coming to you live from London, this is the Wizarding Wireless News Network. Our senior Muggle Issues correspondent Melpomene Timbre is on the scene and has special permission to report from inside the courtroom, in the Ministry of Magic. We are receiving, ladies and gentlemen, the live feed from the courtroom itself… now transferring you over for the exclusive coverage. Over to you, Miss Timbre."

A smooth and faintly bored female voice took over. "Thank you, Jon. I'm here with Lyman Heckinger,_ Daily Prophet_ correspondent, right on the edge of the courtroom floor, and it is quite a spectacle in here today. The courtroom is packed, and there's a crowd outside the door that has to be restrained by security wizards. This is Melpomene Timbre, and you're listening to the Wizarding Wireless News Network."

Again, the jingle.

"It's only moments before what is rumored to be the final trial of Mark Printzen, Presumptive Muggle. The preceding events have been quite tangled, but it has come to center around a few core questions: was the break-in at the house of Turpin Rowle, Omniamnist, justified? Why did Calliope Ollivander go missing for seven days?"

"Because I was kidnapped?" the actual Calliope asked.

"And is Mark Printzen in fact guilty of Presumption – and why should you care? Here to ask and judge these questions are the eleven judges of the Wizengamot, with Pius Thicknesse in presidency. The only judge absent, in fact, is Albus Dumbledore, and that's only to be expected with the Headmaster of Hogwarts. The seats on the courtroom floor fill up. This time, the respected Omniamnist, Turpin Rowle, is taking on the role of plaintiff –"

"_Plaintiff?_" Mark repeated.

"—and he is seated along the southeastern wall of the court. On the southwestern wall, in solemn silence, are: the wizard who acted as Printzen's consul in his first trial, Linus Ollivander, sitting up straight in his Obliviator robes; the witness for the defense in the trial of last September, Amity Tweak, with a heavy scarf around her neck, and, last but not least, the controversial figure of Calliope Ollivander."

All the eyes in the room turned to Calliope, sitting on the couch.

"This is her first appearance before the Wizengamot in this case, and her presence has been a strong point of contention, as she is claimed to be a friend to Printzen and possibly his enabler in stealing magic."

"_Controversial_?" Calliope repeated.

"Well, yes, because apparently you're here and you're supposed to be there," Mark commented uneasily.

"_What is going on_?" Calliope restrained her voice to a fierce whisper as Miss Timbre went on…

Melpomene Timbre went on, "There's still more questions surrounding Miss Ollivander and her exact relationship with Mr. Printzen. Before the court right now she looks cool and calm, but it might be an act. Rumors that she was at the Agnes Stidolph School for Werewolves yesterday during its attack have been confirmed.

"Also present at that attack was Ceridwen Brynach, headmistress of the school, who is currently rehabilitating in St. Mungo's, and Mr. Printzen. One student is missing, and the whereabouts of Hector Gibbs, cousin to Miss Ollivander, and pure-blood wizard, are unknown."

"But what about…" Mark started, before there was a sound from the radio as if the crowd suddenly started to talk quite a bit more loudly.

"And here come the two defendants –"

"Two?" Mark asked.

"Andrew Dupont, a claimed Muggle-born wizard, and Mark Printzen, the Presumptuous Muggle himself."

Mark muttered, "This can't be actually happening."

"They are both well-dressed, in suits and ties in the Muggle fashion. Both are accompanied by security wizards. Mr. Dupont looks morose, but Mr. Printzen looks around him with a cocksure air. They are both seated in the Chair of Chains.

"Wait – Mr. Dupont is resisting. It appears he didn't know that he would be in the Chair. Eventually he sits down. He is chained at the ankles; Mr. Printzen is bound by all but his right hand."

"You are kidding me," Mark muttered behind his hand.

"And Pius Thicknesse is calling for order in the court. I will turn you over to him – Melpomene Timbre, Wizarding Wireless News Network."

The sound changed: instead of Timbre's close and smooth voice, there was more background noise. The voices appeared to be farther away, but they were still perfectly audible.

"Hearing on October 31st, 1996, I, Pius Frollo Thicknesse, hereby call this court to order." He listed out the names of the judges on the Wizengamot, and finished with, "We today stand Mark Emory Printzen and Andrew Paul Dupont on trial for Presumption, breaking and entering, and conspiracy. How are you pleading?"

"Not guilty, your honor," Andrew said. Then, in a lower voice, "Mark, say 'Not Guilty.'"

"Not guilty." The voice was bored and ironical.

"This is not happening," Mark muttered. "I don't even sound like that."

A sharp gavel tap sounded. "The honorable Pius Thicknesse calls the court to order."

The judges summarized the previous trials and what had been established there.

"Mr. Printzen, you are charged with breaking and entering into the plaintiff's house. It is a recognized fact: the one question left is _why_."

"I've told you. Turpin Rowle kidnapped Calliope before my eyes."

"If Miss Ollivander will perhaps share _her_ recollections…"

Miss Timbre said, "Miss Ollivander stands up, looking pale but determined. She hesitates…"

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot," said Calliope's voice, "I have made statements before now as to what really happened, why my brother, cousin, and – this man – invaded Mr. Rowle's home. But I refute them now, once and for all." Gasps. "They were made out of fear. I was being threatened."

"By whom?" asked Umbridge.

After a pause, more gasps sounded. "The young lady points to Mark Printzen," Miss Timbre informed the audience.

Calliope's voice sounded. "Mr. Rowle did not kidnap me. I summoned him, and fled with him. I asked him to protect me, and he did so. I was afraid –"

"What were you afraid of?"

Another hesitation. "Mark – that _Muggle_ there – tried to rape me." Her voice caught. "Yes, rape me. Fortunately my brother intervened. I had to get away. But I've been out of England so long, what friends did I have? I had to turn to the most powerful one I could find, my brother's superior."

"Why couldn't you simply overpower the Muggle?" asked Pius Thicknesse.

"I'm – sorry, so sorry, I'm uncertain – let me start again. The night that I left Boston, that man deliberately hit me with his car. He wasn't trying to kill me; only to incapacitate me, but I Disapparated and survived. He knew I was a witch – I don't know how he found out, but he _knew_. He was trying to steal my magic. And he _did _steal my wand."

There was a massive reaction in the court. Someone in the audience yelled out "_Presumption!_" and the gavel sounded before it was quiet enough for the woman to speak again. "He followed me to England. He got arrested – he didn't plan _that_. But he won over my cousin and my brother. He can be _very_ charming when he wants to be. And he never stopped trying to find me and steal my magic. And –" she choked, and could not go on.

"What?" Umbridge snapped. "Spit it out, girl!"

"He _succeeded, _damn him! He succeeded! _I have no more magic!_"

Pandemonium reigned. Not least in the many voices was Mark's, shouting "_Shut up! Shut up, you—!_" According to Melpomene Timbre, Miss Ollivander was very upset. She only answered two more questions: _what_ exactly had Mr. Printzen done?

He had stolen her magic.

When?

He had been leeching it away from her for weeks, since his attempted rape. What had happened at the Otter's Holt had been a brief and unstable display of the magic that he'd stolen, when he had terrorized the Muggles in the pub, disfigured Calliope by turning her skin green, and mutilated Januarius Fell with _Sectumsempera_. But that had been a brief fling. Once her brother had separated the two of them, Calliope had started to regain her strength.

Then, yesterday, at the Agnes Stidolph School, Mark Printzen had finally succeeded in his theft.

She refused to answer any more questions, so the examination turned to Mr. Larson, an Unspeakable that Miss Ollivander had worked with.

His questioning was brief, as he had work to do, but he confirmed that Miss Ollivander had always had trouble with magic, and she had never used a wand. She'd been distracted and disoriented, so much so that the Department of Mysteries had had to refuse her volunteer work.

The next witness for the prosecution was Turpin Rowle. His version of events aligned exactly with what "Calliope" had said: she had asked for his help, he had only sheltered her against that predatory Muggle. Of course it was natural for her to experience mental shock after having her magic stolen from her. It was his _professional_ opinion, furthermore, that the so-called "attack" on the school was nothing of the sort, but actually the result of magic – _stolen_ magic, wielded by a Muggle and of course completely out of control – that had blasted out an entire wall and damaged a wing.

"And I don't even venture to guess what it must have done to Hector Gibbs," he added. "Considering we have yet to find his body. Perhaps Printzen stole his magic as well? Or killed him to keep him –"

"No." That was Andrew's voice, very soft and steady. "No."

"Believe whatever you want," said Rowle. "If need be, I'm prepared to perform enhanced interrogation techniques on Mr. Printzen to gain a full confession…"

"After his testimony, after his testimony, _hem hem_," Umbridge coughed. That was the end of Rowle's testimony. He yielded the floor to Linus Ollivander. Melpomene Timbre couldn't hold back a note of appreciation: he was as stern and as composed as a king as he took the floor.

Umbridge asked Mr. Ollivander to contribute his say on whether the Muggle had succeeded in theft of magic. She had barely finished before Linus said, "It's true. He has attempted to force himself on my sister before. I've witnessed this with my own eyes."

"When?"

"When I was at Hollywyck, our family homestead. It was the day that Calliope went into Turpin Rowle's care…" he proceeded to sketch a scene in swift, businesslike strokes. He left his sister and the defendant in the library. He returned, hearing a noise. He opened the door, and Mark (only now did he use the defendant's name) was on top of Calliope on the couch, saying to her, "Now you know why they said to stay away from us— stay far, far away, because otherwise…"

As he described his, Calliope began to tense up, curling in on herself, tighter and tighter. She refused to look up, and no one looked at her (Mark stared at the carpet).

Linus finished with, "I intervened, thank God, and just then Rowle arrived, and Calliope fled with him. Mark attempted to pursue her – and with his persuasive _charm_ he convinced me to distrust my own eyes. I followed him to my own undoing, and I got arrested for my folly.

"After they were reunited, his hold over her grew stronger. It even got to the point where the Muggle made her think _he _had been the victim. She told me that what I saw – at my own home – was a false memory. She said it was invented by Turpin Rowle – as if I, an Obliviator, couldn't recognize a false memory when I saw one!"

Calliope screamed into her folded arms. Everyone started.

"What's wrong—" Mark started.

"He promised! He promised me he wouldn't tell anyone, damn him, he _promised_! God – damn – turn it off, turn it off!" She scrambled out of the chair and pushed her way out onto the back porch, where she screamed again. War and attacks and necromancy and confessions and now this – how could Linus have done this? What power on earth could have made him believe what was false, and break his promise to her?

Calliope felt tears gathering at her eyes, but she swallowed them back, starting to stride along the porch. This was no time for tears. Linus was betraying her. More, someone was stealing her face, someone was stealing her name and voice to tell lies and destroy Mark's life, her life. But focus on Linus, now, how could Linus be doing this?

What if Linus was kidnapped? And replaced, as she and Mark had been? That was the easiest answer, and it had an appeal – despite the idea of Linus being captured – ah, she had quiet to _think_ out here, _that_ was the point of the attack at the school yesterday. Mark's gut reaction had been right; they weren't after the students, they were after _him_, but not to merely kidnap him, but to replace him, and stage this real-time, improvised radio drama.

She gave a sigh of relief. Now it fell into place, now she could see the machinery driving the whole. How they were able to replicate Mark and Calliope was another question – as it was, how come Andrew and Linus had not noticed?

Andrew might be distracted – especially if Hector had no double, had simply vanished—and Linus – that brought her back to her brother.

The testimony of her own double surely meant that Turpentine had a hand in this. He had written up the script for "Calliope" and probably "Mark" – but "Linus"? Every thing would be within his power to know – except for Linus' remark about false memories. Why would Turpentine's actor say that?

But the words stemmed from a conversation Calliope had had with her brother – the moment she had made him promise never to tell anyone else. That the real Linus was speaking, then, made the most sense. And only the real Linus would want to publicly air his own thought process, to assure the world that the facts were beyond doubt, because _he_ had doubted, but now understood.

It was so like her brother.

"God damn it," she muttered, facing towards the forest.

A soft voice called her name. She turned and saw Julietta, standing by the door to the library. The younger witch waited until Calliope approached. "We all want to know if you're all right."

"Kind of you to inquire. Could you please do a very quick Tarot reading for me? Right now? Do you have your cards?"

Julietta looked only mildly surprised. "Of course. I would be happy to. But are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I just need to know something—"

'_Or maybe_,' it occurred to her as she followed Julietta into the house, '_maybe that is the real Linus, and he's _acting_. He knows that that is not the real me, not the real Mark, he's playing along because he's been told we'll die otherwise. … Is my brother that good of an actor_?'

From the opposite end of the library, the young women could hear the radio going on at low volume. "All right. Please ask if my brother, Linus, is really testifying with the Wizengamot, or if it's an imposter."

Five cards, laid out in a cross. Eight of Wands. Knight of Swords. The Moon in the center. Emperor. Two of Swords.

Calliope was about to ask something when Julietta interpreted, "Yes, it really is your brother. He believes what he's saying. But he might not be in his right mind."

"Oh…" Calliope looked down at the normally timid girl, who was regarding the cards with an air of sang-froid. "That answers all of my questions, actually."

"Good. So I'll put these away?" Julietta was folding up the deck when four cards fell out. She picked them up and studied them.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, my cards are just trying to tell me something."

"Calliope! Come—" Mark emerged from between the stacks. He paused. "You were – getting a reading?"

"Yes, but I'm done now. What is it?"

"Linus just said – he accused Andrew of _teaching_ me to steal magic – and now Andrew is testifying."

They sat themselves in front of the radio once more, eyes fixed on its mahogany and screened front.

"Look, I have never said the things that Mr. Ollivander attributed to me just now. I would never try to teach Mark magic, much less how to steal it—"

"Mr. Dupont, please focus on the questions at hand. What is your employment at…" a rustling of paper. "The Pentagram?"

An awkward pause. "I'm part of an elite defense force… tasked with…"

"Exactly which force? Which department? Which division of the Pentagram?"

"I… can't tell you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't tell you. My job is classified."

"Classified. _Really_." Someone snickered.

"Yes, it's what happens with jobs pertaining to national security…"

"How funny… How _very_ classified it must be, then, since the Pentagram has no record whatsoever of your occupation there. None that they would release to us, anyway."

"Well—well – that only makes sense, if you knew what my job was…"

"We _don't_ know what your job is, Mr. Dupont. We have only your word for it that you even _have_ a job at the Pentagram, that you are even recognized as a wizard by the United States government."

"What?"

"You've been leeching off of the American Embassy in London for weeks now."

"Because of my job—"

"Your insubstantial, unprovable job? Is it really the job, or are you employing the Imperius Curse?"

"_What?_ I would never, _ever_, use the Imperius Curse!"

"Your wand will answer for that. It has been taken into custody."

"No! You –"

"Does the name Jehoshaphat Dimmesdale Reed mean anything to you?"

After a pause, "Joey? Do you mean Joey Reed?'

"Joey Reed?" Mark repeated. "I thought his name was just Joseph…"

"Who _is_ he?" Guadalupe asked.

Andrew answered, "He was a friend of mine. A friend of ours. Mark and Joey and me, we were in elementary school together."

"And Mr. Reed was a pure-blooded wizard."

"Well, yeah – I think he had ancestors who were wizards in the very first colonies, his family went way back—"

"Why did his family deign to send him to school with _you_?" Umbridge's voice barely contained her sneer.

In response, Andrew's tone carried a sound of straightening up. "To teach him how to interact with other kids, give him the chance to play with kids his own age. He _wanted_ to go. Are you going to try and penalize him, or something?"

"That would be very hard," Mark said, half to himself, with a dark laugh.

"Did you know he was a wizard?" Calliope asked him.

"No, not at the time. But Andrew's filled me in since."

"And you befriended him," Umbridge went on.

Andrew replied, "Yes. When I started showing magic, he took a real interest in me. Heh, he kind of took me under his wing, even though he was, what, seven months older than me? Weird to—"

"Finish the story."

"Sorry, ma'am…" Andrew cleared his throat. "He wanted to teach me about wizards and the whole world and stuff… he kind of thought of me as taking his place. He had a heart defect, see? He was born with it. All the magic in the world couldn't cure it – not that his parents didn't try. But he was a brave kid. Looked death straight in the face… and grinned."

"So he died," said Thicknesse bluntly.

"Yes. March seventh, 1982." ("It was March _sixth_, you dunderhead," Mark said flatly.) "He was nine years old, almost ten."

"_Hem hem._" Umbridge sounded very pleased. "The court summons Atreus Fell, expert witness on Presumption."

Atreus Fell spoke, in a commanding tone that made Julietta draw her knees to her chin and hug herself, "Mr. Dupont, when was the last time you saw Mr. Reed alive?"

Andrew paused a long time before answering. "Two days before. He told Mark and I he had a doctor's appointment the next day. We hung out in After School Care. We played a game. A board game."

"So," asked Atreus Fell, "He saw you two days before his death… and you were clearly competing with each other? Striving against each other?"

"It was just some dumb game, we weren't really _striving_…"

Atreus Fell interrupted, continuing to question him on the most obscure minutiae, questions so strange and abstract – "Did you ever own a lock of Mr. Reed's hair? Did you ever know his complete legal name before he died? One what days of the week were you prone to meet?" And more and more Andrew's answers became, "I really don't recall," and "I don't know," and then, in a burst of anger, "That was over sixteen years ago! I don't _remember!_"

"Please keep your patience, Mr. Dupont," said Atreus Fell with the voice of an affronted saint. "We _are_ in a court of law."

Then, Mr. Fell began his cross-examination in earnest. His eloquence was overwhelming. The accusations fell as savagely as blows. _All _of Mr. Fell's research on Presumption had shown – first the friendship, then the sudden weakening of one party – this was practically a case study – the ideas were presented in a clear, simple sequence. Andrew had instigated the friendship, taken advantage of Joey's weakness and innocence. Andrew had sapped Joey's strength, his knowledge of the world, until the wizard's frailness gave way. The persistence of the young, devouring Muggle – so typical of a race that destroyed the land, exploited the weak, to compensate their own lack of nobility and magic. Joey Reed's magic had been stolen, and his death was the immediate and natural consequence in one so young and feeble. Andrew's magic, every spell he'd cast for seventeen years, was the pilfered, captured, stolen magic from a boy who'd been as good as murdered.

When Fell made his closing argument, applause sounded. His rhetoric was flawless. It made beautiful, clockwork sense. The only voice that sounded against the euphony was Andrew. He was livid.

"That is _not_ true, you are a Muggle-hater and you – you – you _could not _be more wrong. Do you hear me?"

He could only barely be heard above the sudden clink of chains.

Melpomene Timbre leaned into the microphone, whispering, "The chains are binding him more tightly… it appears that the tribunal has taken his outburst as a threat."

The judges asked Andrew to perform a simple test to prove that he did possess magic. Andrew was given a replacement wand of balsa wood, and asked to levitate a feather. This he did. Thus concluded his testimony.

Mark Printzen's testimony opened with a request from the judges: using the same balsa wood wand, to perform the same test.

This brief transition in the trial was met with much muttering on every side of the microphone, where Andrew's words could be barely distinguished: "He can't – he's a Muggle – you're all wasting your time, do you have any _concept_ of wasting time?" Then he fell silent.

The entire courtroom fell silent.

Breathlessly, Melpomene Timbre informed the entire Wizarding Wireless Network that Mark Printzen, wand in hand, was levitating the feather by his own magic.

There was so much chatter, noise, and outcry that the announcer's voice could barely be heard, saying that the court was calling a twenty-minute recess. When the radio switched to a commercial for a brand of mouthwash, Guadalupe reached out and turned the volume way down. "Well," she said, "the plot thickens, doesn't it?"

"We have to go to London," Hector stood up. "Now."

"What if it's a trap?" Julietta, sitting by herself in an armchair, curled up closer.

"Can't be a trap if they don't expect us to be listening." Calliope said.

"But aren't they? _Everyone's_ listening."

"They meant to capture us yesterday. Mark and I, and probably Hector, were supposed to be kidnapped yesterday and kept apart."

"So we have to _go_," Hector urged.

"How are they impersonating us?" Mark asked.

"Polyjuice Potion, most likely… especially if Circe Goshawk is on their team, a potion like that would probably be no challenge to her."

Mark asked, "So how did they do it? How do you make that potion?"

"I was just reading about it – I'm studying potions independently –" Julietta started in her nervous way. "The essential thing is a bit of the person you're changing into. Hair is often used…"

"Hair?" Calliope interrupted.

"Yes, hair, but fingernails, skin, anything can be used… Why do you ask?"

Calliope was slowly tracing the pinned-back lock of hair that was shorter than the rest. When the others asked, she told them, "At the Black Otter, at the same time as – no, before they fed me that potion to turn me green – they cut off some of my hair. With all that went on, I didn't even remember for a couple of days. And Circe made the potion, the green-skin one."

"Do you have proof of that?" Julietta asked.

"Well – no, except that it was made in her style. Improvised. That's what the experts said. I know she's been working with the Death Eaters, though I didn't see her there…"

"Proof!"

"I know, Hector, I know –"

"There is proof," Mark said suddenly. "Can blood work for Polyjuice?"

"Better than anything," Julietta said in the following silence.

"Circe took some of my blood." Mark told the story of how Circe had been hired to brew Wolfsbane potion, and Guadalupe helped him to explain Circe's theory of customizing potions, and her off-color comment as she took some of Mr. Printzen's blood –

"You _let_ her?" Calliope burst out, livid. "You _let_ her take your blood?"

"Just to demonstrate, I had no idea…"

"Good _god_, she could have used that to perform serious Dark Magic on you, Mark! Any number of curses or – you're practically _lucky_ she only used it for Polyjuice!"

"I had no idea! I'm the stupid Muggle, remember?"

"Do not talk about yourself that way, you just have no idea how –"

"People!" Hector interrupted. "You're forgetting the point. We have _proof_ that Circe is the one who had access to something she could use to impersonate Mark. That's enough to take to the Wizengamot."

"Okay, then," Mark stood up. "What are we waiting for?"

"Is that some kind of a trick question?" Calliope asked.

"A trick question? When the options are to stop them – perverting the system of justice and telling lies in _our _names, or _not_ to, I don't think it's much of a trick."

"They're Death Eaters. They're always a trick up their sleeves."

"Do you remember from the Black Otter? You said so later, they barely were communicating with each other, no one knew when to do X, Y, or Z—"

"Mark—"

"They're badly organized! Our arrival will throw them into chaos, and then where will their radio show be?"

"Mark, these are _Death Eaters_. These aren't actors, and they aren't just political zealots. Have you forgotten what they're willing to do? And Turpentine is with them, he's _there_." Her face paled as she went on. "He thinks on his feet. He adapts, even to the worst situation. We can't _stop_ him – the most we'll be able to do is confuse him briefly, and then he'll _make it work_ for himself, and he'll create an even worse havoc."

"Calliope—"

"I _know_."

"We can not just stand by and listen to this. Who knows what they're going to do to Andrew when this is done?"

"There's another option," Julietta piped up. All eyes turned to her. "They mentioned that Dumbledore isn't there. He's a Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot. If he's not there, he's probably at Hogwarts. If we can find him and convince him to take our side…"

"Can he stand against the whole rest of 'em, though?" Guadalupe asked.

"I like this idea," Calliope said to Julietta, "but the security on Hogwarts has been quadrupled since you attended."

"But I'm still eligible to be a student," Julietta said hopefully. Calliope looked at her with less confidence.

"Calliope," Mark said. "Are you afraid to meet Turpentine again?"

She visibly stiffened, and her cheeks colored. "No. Of course not."

"We wouldn't be walking into a trap, if they don't expect us."

"I'm saying, it would hardly be less dangerous than a trap would be."

"We _can't_ leave Andrew there, and just sit back and listen while they lie."

She nodded, very slowly and deliberately. "You have a point. But I would still rather go to Dumbledore." She turned to her cousin. "Hector? What do you think?"

Hector, arms crossed, considered for so long that an entire commercial for the play of _The Little Mermaid_ on Mockingbird Lane had time to flare up and die. Finally, he said, "Someone should go to Dumbledore, but Calliope and Mark must go to the trial right now. We owe it to Andrew, and more importantly, we owe it to the law to stop this as soon as possible."

"What about you?" Mark asked.

"I'll go with you to the Wizengamot. You need the extra witness."

"And me?" Guadalupe asked, standing up as well.

"Come with me!" Julietta offered. "Come with me to Hogwarts."

"Brilliant. Sounds like a plan," Calliope said. "Now, let's get ready. We won't do ourselves any favors by looking – um – what's the word…"

"Crazy."

"Yes. Thank you, Mark."

Scurry, as soon as she got wind of what was going on, performed a rapidfire cleaning of the clothes they'd arrived in – and Mark asked Scurry to collect all the dust and pollen from off of the clothes into a little box. She complied, happy enough to have found a human who understood the importance of categorizing everything in neat little boxes.

So Mark stepped out in a clean blazer, collared shirt, and trousers. Hector was attired in his normal work clothes, with the sleeves rolled up, and Calliope wore a black skirt, grey blouse, and matching black jacket – which matched almost word for word the description of "her" outfit on the radio. Guadalupe teased her for it, and the witch snapped, "So I have a distinct personal style, what of it?"

Julietta had not changed her clothes, but when the others entered the library, she had three Galleons in her hand. "Last year some students ran this illegal club on campus – it was very glamorous – and they used coins with a Protean Charm on them to convey information. Here." She handed one coin each to Hector and Calliope, keeping one for herself. "We'll change the words on the coin if something drastic happens, you know, end of the world or suchlike. Heh. Heh."

"A Protean Charm. Very advanced," Calliope complimented her.

"Thank you… like I said, independent study…"

"Can you Apparate?"

"… no…"

"Have you worked out how you're going to get to Hogwarts?"

She paused for a long time, before saying, "Ride a thestral."

"A what?" Mark asked.

"A flying horse," Hector explained. "But Julietta, can you see—"

"Of course I can," she answered, though her face had gone chalk-white. "I've assisted at the Last Rites more times than I can count."

"Guadalupe can't see," Mark pointed out. "If she's going with you…"

"C'mon, I'll be fine if Julietta's fine." Guadalupe clapped Julietta on the back – though she looked less than fine.

"Then what's the problem?" Hector asked.

"I… don't like really bad heights. But I'll do it anyway! I'll do the flying anyway, I'll just close my eyes. I don't have to – direct a thestral, do I?"

"No, they know their own way. You'll be fine." Hector hugged her. "You're a very, very brave girl for doing this."

"Mmf. I know. Hold on. One more thing I have to do." She broke off from Hector and knelt at the table in front of the radio, pulling out her Tarot cards with trembling hands. When Calliope stood in front of her, Julietta said, "I'm listening, go on."

"So. You will take the thestral to Hogwarts. It's not far from here, I've flown the distance by broomstick many times. I'll – try – if the thestral can understand more complex commands – to send you to Dora Tonks – she's an Auror who guards the school. Tell her that Calliope sent you and that you need to speak to Dumbledore. If she insists, you can tell her what's happened, what your errand is. And tell Dumbledore everything. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. Here." While Calliope had been talking, Julietta had been taking out certain cards and tapping them with her wand, turning them into rectangular pewter medallions hanging from black string. She handed the first of them to Calliope.

"The High Priestess?" she read aloud.

"Oh, and you'll need this one, too," she added, reaching up to give her the Hermit.

"I don't need a necklace."

"Look." Julietta glared up at her. "No arguing. Have you ever worn a Miraculous Medal, to remind you of the Virgin Mary and ask her to guide her?"

"No," Calliope answered flatly.

"I have!" Mark called from somewhere within the bookshelves.

"Think of it like an icon. Mr. Printzen, please come over here. _I'll_ feel better if you have them. They'll help you – help you –"

"What?" Mark asked, standing by the table.

"It's right for you to have these. My cards told me so, earlier. Here." As if suddenly embarrassed, she turned scarlet as she handed Mark his medallion, then stood up to find Hector.

Mark's eyebrows went up. "The Hanged Man. Should I be worried?"

"Oh, I could never remember the meaning for that one," Calliope answered. "I got two. _I'm_ worried. And the difference between these two, another thing I could never remember…" '_There's always something else to worry about…_' "Mark – are you okay?" '_Control your nerves_,' Calliope thought. '_He's just Mark. Anything he may have said earlier is – not _quite_ so relevant now, no need to be nervous –_ '

"How are we going to get the thestral here?" Guadalupe demanded of Calliope.

"I've asked Scurry to set out a raw steak on the forest edge. But I'll go see if we've attracted one yet…" She emerged onto the lawn to find that, yes, a thestral had indeed taken the bait. Scurry was coaxing him, with magic of her own, onto the lawn.

"Well done, Scurry, excellently well-done," Calliope called to her house elf.

"Ahem."

Calliope turned to see that Guadalupe was glaring at her.

"Yes?"

"You," and the younger woman attempted to shoot daggers with her eyes, "had _better_ take good care of him, you hear me?"

"You mean Mark?"

Nod.

""I – I was planning on doing exactly that," Calliope answered, quite confused.

"Good. Hey, Julietta!" Calliope turned to see that Julietta had arrived on the lawn, and was inching near the winged horse with a great of fear and trembling. Beyond her, Mark was talking to Hector, who was locking up the house, before they both jogged down the slope to join the women.

Mark and Guadalupe both looked on with great interest at Julietta's attempts to cajole the thestral into liking her, along the lines of "Nice pony" and "who's a pretty pony?"

Guadalupe started forward, and cheerfully volunteered to help Julietta mount the horse, asking first how tall it was.

With a start, Calliope remembered. "Oh – you can't see the thestral, can you?"

"Nope," Mark answered. "So I'm just that I'm watching my werewolf student help a terrified girl atop an invisible horse. An invisible horse, which she will ride to our rescue."

"Don't worry, the horse can fly," she said quickly. "Wait a moment. Hector, do you know '_Revelio Muggletum'_?"

Hector willingly drew his wand and cast the spell on the thestral to allow Guadalupe and Mark to see it.

Guadalupe gave an appreciative whoop at the sight of the tall, gaunt, but strangely beautiful beast, which nickered a little in answer to her cry. "I'll see you later," she waved to Hector and Calliope, and blew a kiss to Mark.

Then strode to the thestral, and mounted it without a hitch. The thestral stretched its wings. It took off at a gallop and then soared into the sky, carrying the young women with it.

It was now only the three of them: Calliope, Hector, and Mark, on the green lawn.

"We're almost finished here, then," Hector said, as that kind of vague comment that people make when uncertain what to actually say.

Calliope swallowed. "Hector, will you give Mark and I a minute?"

He looked perplexed, then smiled. "Of course. I'll just… um… yeah." And he slipped away so quickly that Calliope realized he must have _known_ something. And if he knew it than Andrew probably knew it. And that meant she had been locked out of the loop _again_ when it was –

Right. Mark was right behind her. She turned around. He was looking out again at the hedge. "Wow. What a creature."

"… Yes. Quite." Her stomach knotted itself. "Mark, about what you said earlier…"

He looked at her. "Yes?" And it was so hard to go on. He looked hopeful.

'_No, Calliope, you have to say this, you have to sort this out_…'

"I don't want this to cause any misunderstanding – confusion – friction."

'_He should make a joke about a thesaurus, please, Mark, joke about a thesaurus_,' she thought. But he just nodded. '_Damn_.'

"I mean, we can't be distracted with what we're about to do. And that's why – Mark, I'm…" she grit her teeth, why was this so hard to say? "I'm not in love with you."

He didn't say anything. She had to go on, "I mean, you're my friend, and I would never let you get hurt, ever, but I'm not in love with you. I just want to make that clear."

"Are you –" he asked in a breathless tenor, then cleared his throat and asked "Are you sure?" in a deeper, somewhat more grounded voice. "Are you sure you aren't just saying that because of the radio broadcast—"

"I'm saying this because it's the truth!" she burst out, then she drew back. Folded her arms. Took a deep breath. She was calm again. "That was louder than I intended… I'm sorry, Mark. Truly I am."

"For what?" he shrugged. "It's – well…"

"We'll talk about it more later," she said hurriedly.

"Yeah."

"I'm going to lock up the house."

"Okay."

And she walked away hurriedly, not looking back.

She passed by Hector, who glanced at her, then smiled at Mark. He walked up to the Muggle. "You did it, didn't you? I'm so proud! Good for you! This is…"

"Yes, I did. Please don't talk to me about it," Mark said flatly.

"… Oh. _Oh_, I'm sorry," Hector said, and he sounded like he meant it.

"Just don't talk about it."

"All right!" Calliope came back. "All locked up, and I've put Scurry on guard."

"Nothing left to do?"

"Just to Apparate."

"How do I Side-Along-Apparate with two people?" Mark asked hesitantly.

"Um… maybe like this," Hector offered. And he made a sort of knot out of the three of them, linking arms, with the witch and wizard linking arms behind Mark's back.

"Please tell me that this is utilizing some kind of esoteric geometric magic, and you're not just making it up as you go along," Mark hinted.

"Sorry," Hector mumbled. "But we should be ready now."

"Ministry of Magic, Atrium, right?" Calliope confirmed.

"Yes."

"Then…" She tightened her grip on Mark's arm, "Three…"

"Two…"

"One!"

The last word was spoken by all three, just as they vanished.


	26. Truth and Dare

**Truth and Dare**

Calliope had insisted on formation. As they marched down the black-tiled entrance hall to the Ministry, Calliope held Mark's left hand with her right, and Hector held Mark's other hand. They weren't separated, the two wizards could use magic, and Mark was safe.

But Mark wanted to yank his hand away from Calliope and demand '_Do you have any idea what touching you is _doing_ to me?_' That or he wanted to stop and hold her tightly, until his fear receded and he could be brave, for her, and she wouldn't have to be so wide-eyed, gripping his hand so tightly it hurt.

The security wizard glared at them as they approached. Calliope swore under her breath.

"What's wrong?" Hector asked.

"I should have gotten a wand while we were at Hollywyck."

"Spirit of the staircase," Mark muttered.

"We don't need a wand. We can get by on mine…" Hector offered.

Calliope said nothing. "We can try that," Mark said.

So Hector broke from the formation, and approached the security wizard, and offered his wand. The security wizard offered him clearance (begrudgingly), but would not allow the other two.

"But they're here with me," Hector argued.

"If they don't have wands, they don't enter."

"But – but—I'm a Muggle," Mark argued.

"You shouldn't have a wand in the first place."

"I'm _Mark Printzen!_ I'm the one the trial is centered on right now!"

"Don't play smart with me, sonny," the wizard snapped. The radio next to him began to play the Wizarding Wireless Network's jingle – the trial was beginning again.

"We don't have time," Calliope muttered. She let go of Mark's hand and strode forward. "Sir, if I may try to make you see reason, we are on a _very_ tight schedule." She gripped the sleeve of his uniform with her left hand. "_Confundus_."

The wizard's eyes glazed over as she let go of him. He lolled about, leaning from one foot to the other. When Calliope asked him to let them through, he agreed readily. Once the three of them were on the other side of the barrier, it was back into formation. The two men eyed her uneasily.

Hector ventured, "Cous – that Weatherwax magic – that could be a big deal."

"Yes, it could be," she agreed, letting out a huff of air.

Mark looked at her warily. "Does it – cost more magic, to do it the Weatherwax way?"

"Yes, it does."

"What'll happen when your magic runs out?"

"It won't."

"But if it does –"

"I'll keep an eye on my magic, you don't have to worry about me."

"Oh, are you going to forbid me worrying about you?"

"I don't need your worry, Mark, it's a distraction."

"A _distraction_?" he pulled his hand away. "Why sure then, I'll just take being worried about you and being in love with you and lock those distractions up in a tiny little box and throw away the key, _will that make you happy_?"

"_No! _What will make me happy is stopping this, stopping the trial, and your wibbly feelings are not going to help!"

"Why are you embarrassed that I love you?"

"I'm not embarrassed and don't say it so loud…" Calliope was turning red. Hector had last seen that color on a human face the night that Mark decided to sample the entire line of Dragon's Breath Beer. Intervention time.

"Lady, gentleman, I'm sure we'll have time to talk about this later. Please, let's just keep walking. Try not to make a scene until we _want_ to make a scene, yeah?"

He considered it a success when they took hands again and resumed formation, marching into the elevator. As they entered Level Nine, they realized that they didn't know which courtroom the trial was taking place in.

They turned a corner to the hall where courtrooms were lined up – only to find it blocked by throngs of protesters. Signs punched the air, bearing ugly caricatures of Mark and Andrew, and slogans like "Muggles Go Home."

"At least no one gave us Hitler-staches," Mark observed.

Hector tapped a nearby protestor. "What room number is it in?"

"Fourteen!" came the shouted answer. Miraculously he failed to notice that next to Hector stood the man whose face was on his own sign.

Over the conversation Umbridge's voice boomed: large speakers were tuned to the WWN. "Mr. Printzen, you have been conclusively linked to _successful _Presumption, rape, breaking and entering, and of conspiracy. Are you still prepared to plead Not Guilty? How can you possibly maintain that?"

The crowd surrounding door fourteen was massive. Calliope led the way to push through it, Mark clinging to her and Hector clinging to him. Mark grit his jaw and felt wrath grow in him as he heard his own voice say,

"Fine, then, fine. I change my plea. Why not? I plead _Guilty_. I wanted magic and I _took _it, and I don't regret a thing! If I could I'd do it all over again, it's worth everything – and I'm only sorry I got caught. And once Andrew here drops his weepy act –"they reached the door – "he'll tell you the same thing. I guarantee it."

"_Alohomora_." Calliope leaned her whole weight on the door, and it creaked open. Hector added his own magic to it, ignoring the security wizard's cries of "Hey! Hey, get away from there!"

The door swung open. They stood there, outlined by the crowd. Everyone fell silent. Even Melpomene Timbre was speechless.

For one moment, Calliope saw her double, and Mark saw his, and they locked eyes –

Then someone screamed "FIRE!"

Mark had just enough time to think that no one was going to fall for that, when he was proven wrong. Right in front of Melpomene Timbre fire bloomed, engulfing her microphone and catching on the sleeves of her robe. Other corners ignited and panic erupted.

It was a brilliant move. Spells could be blocked, flames quenched, sound deadened, but a wave of panicked people was an unstoppable force. They didn't run, they stampeded. And the crowd going out met the crowd outside and shouting and yelling and the smell of smoke – the three were almost torn apart. But Mark would not allow that. He was shoved and pulled and the breath was knocked out of him but he would never let them go.

The crowd control was enforced, the louder protesters were escorted out and gradually things became manageable. Calliope, when she and the two men could stay together without clinging desperately, looked around at her full height. "It can't be easy to hide someone as tall as me," she muttered. "Dammit! The judges, I can't see any of them, they're gone."

Mark swore. Hector asked, "Where would they go?"

"I don't – wait!" she began to pull. "I see Linus!"

Mark didn't see her brother, but he saw just beyond. "_Andrew!_"

About 100 yards away Andrew and Mark's doppelganger were being led into a side room, in chains. Mark ran forward, and didn't realize his path was about to cross that of Linus, who was standing anxiously by the door of number twelve with his sister.

Linus rubbed his eyes with tiredness. His sister grabbed his arm. "Linus! It's _him_! How did he get past the guards?"

"What?" That got his attention at once, so fully that he didn't notice Calliope with the fingerless gloves melting into the crowd.

Mark neared, and didn't see Linus at all until his wand was pointed straight at him. Mark skidded to a halt.

"This ends here," Linus hissed with barely controlled savagery. "_Sectum—_"

Calliope saw. She didn't even think. She put one hand on the door of courtroom twelve, and the other –

"—_sempra!_"

The other closed on Linus' wand. The next thing she knew, the door – made of wood – had split almost in half with the force of the spell. Her knees buckled. Hot tears gathered at her eyes and nausea filled her stomach.

Linus bent over her, his voice weak with worry, "Why did you do that? _Why did you make her do that_?" he demanded of Mark.

"I did nothing!" Mark cried.

"Let me through – I said _let me through_, I'm a Healer!" A large man with a white mustache and blue robes pushed through the crowd. "Young lady, do you feel all right?"

"Bit sick…"

"Did you just redirect that spell?"

Calliope nodded.

"All right – that was a neat trick but don't try it again, understand?"

She nodded again, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Here, have a drink of this, it'll steady your stomach…"

"Sir," Linus interrupted, "Exactly who are you?"

The man straightened up, though he only gave Linus part of his attention. "My name's Raphael Bonebright. I'm a Healer and I happened to see what just took place."

"What _did_ just happen?" Mark asked.

"You –" Mr. Bonebright pointed sternly to Linus, "Were trying some kind of spell, I didn't hear just what it was, and she redirected it, letting the magic pass through her and into whatever next object she could touch – that door, for example." He frowned. "I sure hope you don't have to pay insurance for that."

"But why? Why would she do that for –" Linus couldn't even finish the sentence, he just glared at Mark with undisguised loathing.

"You –" Mark began.

"I have no idea," Bonebright interrupted. "But Mr. Ollivander, did you notice that your sister actually ran off?"

"What?"

"I only happened to look this way because someone shoved past me. It was your sister, but I turned to look your way and I see that your sister is standing in front of you right there."

"Wait – that can't be right."

"I just spent the last hour watching your sister talk, son, I know what she looks like. I tell you either she Apparated in Ministry property or –"

"Listen, let me explain it to him." Calliope's voice was weak, but she took another sip of Mr. Bonebright's potion and went on, a bit stronger, "He'll listen to me. Linus…"

"It's okay, Shrimp, you don't have to be afraid of him," Linus put an arm protectively around her, as if shielding her from Mark, "I'll protect –"

"I don't need protecting, I just need a chance to explain. Thank you, Mr. Bonebright. Mark, you have to leave."

"What? But –"

"_No buts. _You and Hector have to go and sort out Andrew and the other one. You're the only one who can and you're only making things worse by staying here."

"But you –"

"I'll be fine, you, _go!_"

They stared at each other for a moment, in a silent contest of wills, then Mark broke away. He resumed his previous path to follow Andrew. Hector followed Mark, with a chipper "Hi, Linus! See you later!"

Linus blinked. "Was that –"

"Yes."

"Why is he going with –"

"Because I'm going to explain something to you, Linus, and if I sound crazy it's not because I just redirected a curse you cast and it's not because my magic was stolen. My magic has not been stolen. Linus, are you listening to me?"

"Yes…" Linus was trying to follow Hector and Mark with his eyes.

"Linus, please! Stop looking at Mark and _listen_ to me!"

"Miss, Mr. Ollivander, how about you step inside courtroom fifteen, where you'll get some privacy?" Mr. Bonebright escorted them into the courtroom, which was an improvement (Mark left Calliope's sight), somewhat, though the door remained open.

She felt dizzy.

'_No, no, Benedicte, not now_,' she pleaded internally, and fought to resist the dizziness so hard that she did not hear Linus call her name until he shook her by the shoulder.

"What is it?" he was asking.

"There's two of me," she blurted, not looking him in the face because that made Benedicte stronger. "One who says all those lies about Mark, and stealing magic, but she's not the _real_ me, do you understand, Little Dude – I mean, Linus! Linus, no, wait, I'm confused."

"I can tell."

"Last night, yesterday, according to _you_, what happened?"

"Why can't you look me in the eye?"

"Because of Benedicte's shadow! The voice of the dead, I don't want to, Linus, please don't make me, just answer my question."

"After the attack on the school, Magical Law Enforcement came on the scene and treated you. You were frightened, didn't have much at dinner, and went to bed early. You hardly talked."

"Have – have I been drinking from a little flask all day?"

"I… er… I didn't notice. Do you mean, say, a thermos of tea?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"Why don't you remember?"

"Because it wasn't me! Look, the attack at the school yesterday, what really happened, Mark left and I followed him – well, and Hector came along too, and two other people, don't look like that. I made a Portkey, we spent the night in a forest, and in the morning we all went to Hollywyck –"

"But you just said about the flask—"

"That was an educated guess, because I was, during the trial – oh, no, I have it completely backwards, just, let me think – no, Calliope, there's no time – Linus, it's a dizzy spell, please just wait for me…"

'_I want Mark_,' she found herself thinking. '_No. I don't need him. I'll be fine on my own._'

Linus stared at his sister, not comprehending. Then he blinked, as if hearing an unseen message. "I understand – oh, my poor Callie –"

"What?" she demanded.

"No – don't panic – you're under Imperius."

"What."

She realized that in the doorway, people were looking at her, wide-eyed.

Linus was ignorant of them, but went on, "Of course – it was set on you at the attack yesterday. It's been controlling you remotely this whole time – it explains your behavior last night, your inability to perform magic today, your memory loss of the trial – you can't explain your own actions, Callie, I'm so sorry, they're using you as a pawn!"

And the people at the door were muttering, yes, this all made sense, didn't it? Yes, it all added up, didn't it?

"Poor girl," someone said.

"I am _not_ a poor girl!" Calliope snapped. "And I am _not_ the same Calliope who was in the courtroom –"

"Because you were under orders, I get it,"

"No, _listen_ to me, because there are two people running around who look like me, one of them _is_ me and the other is impersonating me, are you understanding any of this, Linus, it's very simple!"

"Then where is the impersonator?" Linus asked. "You don't have to explain what you don't know—"

Someone shouldered and forced her way through the crowd, and the door. It was Amity Tweak. She said hoarsely, "I believe you, Calliope –"

But the rest of the crowd was starting to press in, muttering, and Linus was saying, "Yes, if you're under Imperius, you have to be restrained –"

"No! I won't!"

"It's for your own protection, sis, I'm sorry—"

"No – no, you have to believe me! I'm _not_ under Imperius! I'm _not!_ Please, Linus, please –" she looked at her brother –

And understood.

"I'm not under Imperius," she whispered. "You are."

"What?" Linus blinked.

Two security wizards appeared at the door, but Amity pointed her wand at them without a word. The Ollivander daughter said coolly to the guard, "You're not needed here," and to her brother, "Linus, you're under Imperius."

"No I'm not," he said automatically. "And furthermore, don't change the subject."

"But you are! You couldn't sleep after Benny's memory was erased, but since you left prison you've been acting differently, sleeping more – the letters you've been sending, who are you sending them to? You more readily believe that I'm under Imperius than that I'm telling the truth –"

"_You_ think that _I _am under Imperius," he protested.

"You believe that Mark raped me! You know that would never happen, I _told_ you it was a false memory and you promised not to tell."

"I saw him trying, I saw it with my own eyes!"

"That was an illusion, a false memory, Turpentine must have planted it, then made you believe it, and Linus, you know it's impossible to steal magic!"

"No!" he rejoined. "No, it's what Mark did, I _know_ it, I know that scumbag was planning it, and he's convinced you otherwise – or you're lying to me –"

"Why would I lie?"

"Linus!" it was Amity. Her face was red as if she'd shouted the name, but it had come out at normal volume. "Linus, believe her!"

"And this has nothing to do with you, Amity, leave," he commanded her.

"And don't boss me!"

Linus was rattled, and two thoughts occurred in his mind at the same time: '_Amity mustn't shout, it'll damage her voice,_' and '_Amity must be silenced; what she says is dangerous_.'

But she kept talking. "Linus, _listen_, I know you better than anyone and you've become paranoid, suspicious of impossible things, and you're distrusting Calliope, _your sister_, something is wrong!"

"You don't know me," he said to her, and to Calliope, beyond her, "None of you know, you're too young, you don't realize everything that I have to do – to keep everything together, coherent – you don't know – you don't know!"

'_Mistrust, you're the only one who understands, you're the only one who can fix things_…'

"Linus," Calliope said, "I am not a child, _I_ have been the one to keep things together, while you stood here and believed lies. You are _not_ infallible. You're – under – Imperius."

"I can't be!" he answered, the words more cracked than he wanted them.

"Of course not!" Amity agreed, and she was really screaming now. "Not Linus Ollivander, because you're so much better than the rest of us!"

"Shut up, Amity," he snapped, turning towards her.

"_Make me!_"

He raised his right hand to strike her –

"Linus, _don't!_" Calliope yelled.

'_What am I doing_?' he thought.

"Go ahead, Linus Ollivander," Amity said, her voice ragged. "If you dare."

'_Do it_,' came another thread of thought, a thought that he'd believed was his until this moment, '_Strike her, she's an enemy_…'

'_She's Amity, and if Calliope thinks I'm wrong then…_'

'_No! You are in the right! You are Linus Ollivander and you are not mistaken! Strike her!_'

His hand twitched, and fell forward, but he bent over rather than let it hit Amity. "No –" he hissed, "I _am_ mistaken."

It was like touching land after swimming for hours – for months.

It was a very strange scene as Linus was about to strike Amity, then doubled over, mumbled to himself, then proceeded to take a few lurching steps this way and that.

And then he fell onto the floor, and he struggled to stand up, resisting any help, when Amity tried to take his arm he flung her off, "_No, _no, I'm not free yet…"

"Linus," his sister knelt by him, placing her hand on his head, "Let me help you. _Finite Imperiosum_."

And the last clouds, the last whispers of the voice, faded and fled. And Linus slumped, giving a sigh of exhaustion. He'd only had three hours of sleep. How long had this been – aha.

"Turpin," he muttered.

"What?" Calliope asked.

"Turpin Rowle. When I told him to bugger off. I thought I was free of him. But he cursed me when my back was turned."

There was a rasping sound higher up. Linus looked up. "Amity!"

She was clearly trying to smile, but she was clutching her throat and her face was tight with pain. "I said," she said in a horrible rasp, "Turpin is a…"

Linus jumped up and made shushing gestures, his fingers almost, but not quite, touching her lips, "No, don't repeat it, I'm sorry, Amity, for making you yell. I'm so sorry."

She shrugged, as if to say, "_The damage is done_."

"It'll be all right," Calliope said without conviction. "Now, listen to me, Linus. you're not cursed, I'm not cursed, we can agree, let's start over."

"Yes."

"Mark never raped me."

"Okay."

"The Death Eaters are in the middle of a scheme right now to impersonate Mark and I, and to have not only Mark, but Andrew, found guilty of Presumption."

"Okay."

"Yesterday, Mark and I were both replaced by Death Eaters taking Polyjuice Potion. The entire trial up to this point has been a sham. Mark and I have been impersonated, and now we have to find the impersonators."

"Okay."

"… Linus, this is a _bad thing_ and I'd feel better about your mental state if you said something other than…"

"_Got it!_ Agreed! Affirmative! _Je comprends totallement_. Understood."

"Hector and Mark have gone to root out the fakes; I know a conspirator – it's Circe Goshawk –"

"Who?"

"I'll explain later, I was supposed to find her but I got sidetracked by you, so I think we need to get back on track right now."

"Agreed."

"And that means –" she took out a coin and tapped it with her wand, "the courtroom."

ooo

Mark's resolve stood up valiantly for a few moments after he left Calliope, then he broke down, stumbling to a halt and burying his face in his hands. Hector tugged at him. "Come on, let's go – we'll think about this later – Mark, I'm sorry, I really am."

"Sorry for what?" Mark raised his head. He straightened his collar and adjusted his tie. "It was obviously ridiculous from the start. My fault entirely. I was too – what's the word?" He smoothed his hair, patted a pocket, and brushed off some invisible dust. He turned to Hector. "_Presumptuous_, that's it. Okay. How do I look?"

"Why are you asking me that now?"

"Because it matters. _How do I look_?"

"Um…"

"Do I look calm? Collected?"

"… Actually, yes."

"Great. Showtime. Just follow me, and give me your wand." And Hector had a minute to be worried, because he realized, _'Mark has nothing left to lose_.' Mark barged his way into the crowd and shoved past the security guard, and took a stand before the policemen standing with Andrew and a man who looked exactly like Mark.

"Gentlemen," Mark declared, "You have the wrong man. _I_ am Mark Printzen, and I demand that you place me under arrest!"

Ten, then twenty, then thirty heads turned to look at him in stunned silence. Including the other Mark.

He took one look at him, paused, and then began to scream.

"Aaaah! A Death Eater!"

"Oh, shut up," Mark snapped. "You aren't fooling anyone; the gig's up. _That_ man has been impersonating me this entire time, and this entire trial has been a fraud."

"He's a Death Eater! He's impersonating me!"

"Look, I'll give you credit." Mark walked right up to him, and looked – himself? – in the eye. "You are a really good actor. But you can't improvise for shit."

The other Mark stopped his panicking and looked very affronted.

"Furthermore, _this_ is a Boston accent, what I'm saying right now. You have down a pitch-perfect Bronx accent." Mark smiled. He pulled out Hector's wand and said, "This is not going to work. Accio Polyjuice Potion!"

Nothing happened.

Mark waited a beat, then said brightly, "Oh, right, I'm a Muggle. Hector, you try." And he gave Hector his wand back. And Hector pointed his wand and said, "_Accio Polyjuice Potion!_"

A hip flask zoomed out from underneath the other Mark's blazer. He gave a cry as the flask landed in Hector's hand. "Give that back!"

"Oh? And why do you need it?" Mark turned to him, his eyes glittering. "You know it's Polyjuice Potion, otherwise Hector couldn't have summoned it. And, correct me if I'm wrong, folks," he added to the onlookers, "but Polyjuice Potion changes your appearance. Why would you need something like that?"

The other man scowled, and returned, "Why do _you_ look exactly like _me_?"

Mark seemed to consider it. "That's a very good question. But the answer to that is, _I_ am the real Mark Printzen, you are an impersonator and a fake." He grabbed his counterpart by the collar, ignoring Hector's warning cry of "Mark, take it easy…"

"I'm taking it easy," Mark said conversationally. "I'm only holding his shirt. No law against that, is there? I mean, he's already handcuffed."

(Hector uneasily noticed that the guards were starting to discuss if they should arrest the second Mark Printzen, just to be on the safe side.)

"I mean," Mark went on, "I could stay here all day."

And they could all see the beads of sweat gathered on the forehead of the other Mark.

"I'm going to do this the easy way." He let go of the other Mark's shirt. "You listening? Okay. Pop quiz. Why would _I _want to be Mark Printzen? A worthless, pathetic, infamous Muggle? Hmm?" he paused. "If you _are_ the real Mark Printzen, that would have been a good moment to react because I just insulted you. Okay. I'm going to ask you three times nicely. What is your name?"

"Mark Printzen." He swallowed.

"What is your _real_ name?"

"Mark Emory Printzen."

"You liar. What is the name that your mother and father gave you, your Christian name, your _true name_?"

"Mark Emory Printzen, you bugger!" He spat.

Mark looked surprised, and began to take something out of his pocket. "Weird. I've never used 'bugger' like that; that's British slang. And I distinctly don't remember the word 'bugger' being part of my name. How much longer will that potion of yours last? Ten minutes? Five? Hector, what time is it?"

Hector checked his watch. "Four-thirty p.m."

"That late already? Wow, this day went by fast… A-hem. Okay, Mark Printzen. I'm going to do this the hard way. Next question: Do you have any allergies?" Mark had taken a small box out of his pocket.

He looked confused. "Um… no."

"Wrong again." Mark took the lid off of the box: there was a tiny amount of dirt and yellow powder, enough to maybe fill the palm of his hand. He blew on it, sending a cloud directly into the other Mark's face. Then he stepped back at once and took a quick breath from the inhaler Calliope had given him earlier.

The other Mark began to cough. "What's this?"

"Something that's about half-mundane, half-magic. Dust and pollen from the forest spiked with house-elf magic. Something that _you_, Mark Printzen, will have an allergic reaction to. And it's beginning now."

Hector watched with mixed horror and admiration as Mark's duplicate began to cough and choke and sneeze, his eyes watering. "Stop it –"

"Painful, isn't it, Mark Printzen?" Mark rattled the inhaler he was holding out. "I have the medicine to stop this at any moment. Something that Calliope Ollivander gave to me, because –" his voice caught, then he went on, "—I am her friend, and I would _never _harm her, and you deserve worse than this for saying otherwise."

The coughing got louder, "Help me…"

"Help you? In exchange for ruining my name more than it already was, assuming my face, _bragging_ about raping the woman I love, you want me to help you? Don't be a baby, you won't die from this. Anyway, soon your potion will wear off, and you'll go back to being your allergy-free self. Think you can stand it that long? Or is your throat closing up just a _little_ too tough to deal with?"

"Mark, you're going overboard –" Hector pulled at his shirt, but Mark shrugged him off.

"Don't even try. This worm _knows _what he did, he knows who I am, and he knows that there's only one thing that can fix this. _Tell me your name_."

"Go to hell!" the other Mark's eyes were by now so puffy he could barely see through them, but he squinted at Mark with pure hate, before another coughing spasm wracked him, and he began to wheeze horribly. "I can't – I can't breathe –"

"Tell me your name."

"Mark – Pr-printzen…"

"_Liar_. One more time, _tell me your name_."

"Can't… breathe_…_"

"Try."

"Mark Pr—pr—" he coughed, "Pr—"

He bent close to his double. "No more lies. You and I both know it, Pro…"

One last cough, tears streaming down his face, and he managed, in a whisper that just barely carried, "Proteus Troup."

Without a word, Mark directed his doppelganger's head up and gave him a dose of medicine from the inhaler. He took a gasp and straightened up a little.

"Now, tell these fine gentlemen who you are." Mark stepped back but kept his grip on the man's collar.

"Proteus Troup." He looked down at the floor, his eyes red.

"A little louder. Here, have another dose." He administered it generously.

"Proteus Spiegel Troup." He looked up now, and over Mark's shoulder something caught his eye. He widened his eyes and mouthed, "_Run!_"

Mark turned. There was a movement in the crowd. "Hector, after her!"

Hector didn't need telling twice. In a minute he had caught her and dragged her back to the security guards. She looked sadly at Proteus Troup.

"Well, well," Mark said. "Circe Goshawk. I can't say I'm surprised. But what _are_ you wearing?"

Circe looked even smaller than usual in a long black skirt and a pink blouse with a black jacket over it – all much too long for her. The sleeves hung to her fingers, and the skirt was so long she'd tripped over it, which was what allowed Hector to catch her.

"I get it," Mark snapped his fingers. "You're Calliope's double, but when your potion wore off, you were left playing dress-up in clothes that're too big for you."

Hector noticed that Circe and Proteus looked at each other, and some understanding passed between them, but Mark was too busy to notice. He gestured to Hector to let Circe and Proteus stand together, while he found Andrew. Hector followed him.

They found Andrew with his arms and legs chained, with a burly security guard on either side. One of the guards pointed his wand at Mark.

But another guard (who had followed them) said, "Hey, calm down, there's two of them, this is supposed to be the real one."

"But shouldn't we arrest him anyway, then?"

"Andrew, are you okay?" Mark asked his friend.

He recoiled. "Who are you?"

"Andrew, it's me, Mark."

"Shut up. Just – don't even try. Either you're a psychopath who murdered Hector and stole Calliope's magic, or you're someone else, or –"

"No, Andrew! I love Calliope, I would never hurt her, and I remember Joey Reed. You never stole his magic. The three of us walked all the way to Newton's Creamery and back one day just for ice cream, remember? Got home at sunset and our parents were _so _mad."

The fear lifted from Andrew's face. He blinked in disbelief. "Mark? It's really you?"

"Ask me something. Something only I would know."

He thought. "Do you forgive me for hiding magic from you, and trying to modify your memories?"

He smiled wryly. "It took me a while, but yes."

"Mark!"

Mark hugged his friend. "These chains, Jesus…"

Andrew smiled without enthusiasm. "I don't know, I'm getting back in touch with my ancestors. Could be worse… Hector?"

Mark turned around. A light had entered Andrew's face that he'd rarely seen before. Hector stepped forward timidly.

"Andrew?"

"Hector! I thought that you were dead –" and Mark stepped aside. Hector ran to Andrew and hugged him, saying, "How can they chain you, I can't believe it –"

"I swear, I thought you were dead, Hector, I couldn't sleep last night –"

Then they kissed, and the guards had their reactions to that, but Mark looked away, his chest heaving, but he caught, controlled himself, trying very hard not to think of a pair of silver eyes and a smile among hollyhocks.

He clutched in his hand the coin that she had given him. Then he suddenly felt it grow hot in his hand. He turned around. Hector was holding his coin, too.

"The courtroom," they said together.

"But what about Andrew?" Hector asked.

"We can't bring him with us."

"What's going on?" Andrew asked.

"Calliope enchanted the coin. We need to rendezvous with her." Mark explained.

"Then go on, meet her. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" asked Hector.

"Yes, I'm sure. Please, find her. You'll do more good there than by trying to rescue me. _Go!_" Andrew urged.

Hector kissed him one last time, and Mark said, "Hey – good luck, man."

"You too."

And the two of them set off for the courtroom.

Hector followed behind Mark, and said, "Mark, listen, you really crossed a line back there."

"What?"

"How did you get that allergic reaction? From your double?"

"I had Scurry the house-elf take the dirt off of my clothes and everyone else's, and asked her to amplify it. I knew that if I had a reaction to it, my doppelganger would too."

"The way you were talking to him –"

"I was dealing with the situation, Hector."

"You were tormenting him publicly –"

"So I sweated the perp, you know he deserved– _Calliope!_"

He'd spotted her ahead, looking around for someone. She saw Mark and ran towards him. "Oh, thank God, I've been looking for you – Hector?"

"Yes?" Hector frowned.

She looked again at the two of them. "Oh – yes – yes, I found you. What's happened?"

"I went to my duplicate and outed him –"

"Low-grade torture," Hector muttered.

"And we found your duplicate as well. Circe Goshawk, just like you predicted."

"You found Circe?"

"Yes. She was wearing your clothes and everything. Then you –"

"You wanted to meet us in the courtroom," Hector interrupted.

"Er – yes! I have something to show you."

"What?" Mark asked.

"Turpentine. I know what he's doing, but I have to take you there to – to show you."

"And why can't you tell us?" Mark pressed.

She took his hand and squeezed it, looking straight at him. "Please, just trust me."

He swallowed. "Lead on."

They pushed through the crowds, to the courtroom, past the door that Calliope had ruined. "Where's Linus?" Mark asked her.

Calliope glanced over her shoulder. "He was put under Imperius. Turpentine did it."

"_Oh_ – and now?"

"He's off recovering from it."

"You don't seem that worried," Hector muttered.

"He's got his friend looking after him, last I checked. He'll be fine."

"Amity?" Mark asked.

"Yes." She pushed open the door to the courtroom, still holding Mark's hand. "Now be careful – this place may be watched…"

Hector asked, "Now what's this big plan you couldn't tell us ab—"

"_Expelliarmus!_"

The voice came from above them. Hector's wand flew out of his wand and clattered across the room. They looked. Staring down at them from over the door were two tall masked Death Eaters. One waved his wand, and the door shut itself.

"I really can't believe you fell for that," said the first one. He took off his mask.

"Turpentine," Calliope muttered.

He smiled.

"_Mobilarcorpus!_"

Calliope was wrenched through the air with a cry, suspended six feet above the ground, and gagged.

"_Callie__!_" But at the same time that Mark ran to her a giant invisible hand slammed him back.

Turpentine nodded to his colleague. "Well done. Now – it's been a very bad day all around, Mr. Printzen. I will not return empty-handed, I'm sure you understand."

"Enough games, Turpentine, let her go!"

"Is it ever going to be enough with our family?" Hector asked, furious.

"You would do well to stay out of this, Mr. Gibbs. Now Printzen, I'm feeling a sense of déjà vu myself, old sport. Last time she gave herself up for you. Now what will it be?"

"Why not take both of us?" Mark demanded.

"Actually…" the Death Eater who was still masked spoke thoughtfully. "Makes a fair point. Why _don't_ we take both of them?"

Hector gave an irritated sigh. "For once I would like to be _seen_ and not just treated like empty air…"

Turpentine scowled at Mark and the masked Death Eater. "Do you think I have time to spare? I can't control both of them if they're fighting back. Mr. Printzen! Your life or hers. This is your last chance.

Mark looked at her – and muttered something to Hector –

"I'm waiting, Mr. Printzen!"

"Shut up, Turpentine. I'm yours. Let her go."

Turpentine smiled even more widely and let Calliope drop. Mark ran to her, got her back to her feet, asking if she were alright.

She looked down at him, disbelief in her eyes. "How can you – how can you do this?"

He smiled, and kissed her.

After a start of surprise, she kissed him back. He poured everything into the kiss, into her, everything he could – all of his love, all of his passion, all of the time he wanted to give her and was giving away –

"_Mark_?"

There was only one voice that could have made Mark stop. He broke off, and turned.

The courtroom door was open. Calliope was standing in the doorway, with Linus behind her.

Her expression was indescribable.

He looked back at the Calliope he had been kissing. She was smiling.

Horror dawned – and he thought, '_I am a fucking idiot_.'

As for Calliope, she had had to shove through the crowds of people there, who recognized her and pulled at her, asking questions, and not least in the questions was Linus. He pestered, "There _was_ a charge of fire…"

"But that was complete rubbish – let me through – _let me through_ –"

"Calliope, do you _have_ to be in the courtroom?"

"Yes, it's the rendezvous point! _Let me through, _I said –" Finally she got to the door. She pressed on it and said "_Alohomora_," forcing the magic apart, and then she looked inside –

And froze.

There were two Death Eaters, masked and robed in black, standing before the judge's podium. Hector stood by the door. But between them, with his back to her, was Mark –

– and Mark was _kissing _–

A double of Calliope, and he was kissing her passionately, and the Death Eater held a gavel in his hand, glowing blue like it was being enchanted into a Portkey, but the entire scene was centered around Mark and the _other_ Calliope –

"_Mark_?"

Calliope didn't even quite realize that she'd said it, let alone how loud.

And Mark broke away from the kiss – reluctantly – and turned around. When he his met hers, they widened in shock. He looked to the Calliope he was holding, and –

One of the Death Eaters – speaking with Turpentine's voice – said, "_Time's up!_"

And there was movement all over the place – she let go of the door, letting it fall closed, to run towards Mark – Mark pushing the _other_ one aside and running towards _her_ – but the Death Eaters were swooping in, and even as Mark was reaching his hand towards her –

"_No!_"

The Death Eater caught him, and pulled him back, and the Portkey vanished.

Mark and the Death Eaters vanished.

Mark was gone.


	27. The Fury

**The Fury**

A/N: A particular scene here was inspired by Martin McDonagh, the last word [and not a polite one] in contemporary Irish playwrights. Check him out.

And it seems only appropriate that this chapter coincide with the release of the Hunger Games film. Happy Hunger Games! And thanks for reading!

ooooo

Calliope ran through the place that Mark had been a second before. She forced her running to stop, but she couldn't drop her arms – if she had only run faster, reached further –

There was a laugh.

The other Calliope was standing in the middle of the floor, laughing, covering her mouth with her hand.

And she looked at her, and laughed, and smiled – and then her smile faded, because Calliope was running again, and she tackled her to the ground, and pinned her, screamed "_Where is he?_"

The other Calliope's eyes were wide in shock –

"I said, _where is he_?"

"You'll never know."

"_Depulso!_"

A Banishing Charm – from Hector, who had recovered his wand – hit Calliope like a car. She was flung several feet, then fell and rolled on the floor, bruising all over. When she looked up again, Hector was helping up the Calliope that she had just tackled. But in the open door, Linus hung back, looking between the two of them.

"Are you hurt?" Hector was asking the wrong one.

"Oh, bless you, Hector," she said in a shaking voice.

"You! Don't move!" he pointed his wand at the real one.

"Don't – Hector, I think you have it wrong –" That was Linus. "I think – I mean, I only saw for a minute, but –"

The other Calliope was up, then, and running, and out the door, and that was all, that was the only important thing left, and she shoved past Hector and even Linus, past the door, and the crowd was there, but the Other Calliope had opened a path, so she could at least be followed –

"Stop her!" Calliope yelled. "Stop that woman!"

"No! Help! She's trying to kill me!" yelled the other. And she ran down the hall and no one touched her, because she set up a Shield Charm as she ran with a white wand.

_A white wand_.

Calliope ran faster, and faster, and the woman was getting into the elevator. The door closed.

_No!_

There was another elevator, and she took that one, willing it to go faster, faster. Finally, the door opened. Into the Atrium. And the other Calliope was running.

_'Run, run to save Mark, run, now, don't you dare let her escape_…', and she was gaining, but the other Calliope was nearing the Apparation booths, and she glanced behind her, once, before starting to turn on her heel –

And Calliope tackled her, and they Disapparated together.

This entire time, Linus and Hector had been running after. Just as they had entered the Atrium, Hector had taken aim, and was about to fire at the one in pursuit, but – "_Don't_!" Linus caught him, and stopped him, just as the Disapparation cracks sounded. Hector turned around, furious,

"Linus, _what the hell_?"

"You were about to shoot the wrong one!"

"Do you have any idea what is going on?"

"I think I have a better idea than you do." Linus snapped. "I only got a glimpse at what happened – but there were two Calliopes and you helped the wrong one."

"Bull. Shit." Hector spat. "You're telling me the Calliope who was _strangling_ the one on the floor and screaming at the top of her lungs was the real one?"

"Yes. _I_ was with the real Calliope when the door first opened. She took off my Imperius Curse and – she led me to the courtroom and there was Mark and someone else – and Turpin, I know it was Turpin, and for god's sake I know what I'm talking about!"

"Really? Then let me tell you what I saw. Mark and I caught Circe, the girl who was impersonating Calliope, we handed her over, and then we met Calliope in the crowd. We go to the courtroom, and Turpentine and his brother are there. They catch her and offer a trade. Mark says, 'take care of Andrew,' and accepts it. But just after he does, the door opens, and the fake Calliope – with you – is there, and then she attacks the real one and _you_ buggered up everything!"

"I had the real one!"

"How could the real one be the one going berserk?"

"Mark – " his grey eyes widened. He began to walk around the Atrium, restaging the conflict in the courtroom. "It was a trade. The Death Eaters were _there.._. she was here, he was here… If she led you there… they were both going there… It was a setup. The Death Eaters and the fake one, they set Mark up. And he took the bait, because even though the real Calliope set up the meeting, the fake took advantage."

"But the fake would be more willing to attack the real one," Hector said, but slowly.

"Not because of Mark. The fake one was saying that Mark raped her… and I believed it."

"Yes, we know, you're an idiot – but then why would the real one go so crazy like that?"

Linus swallowed. "I guess – that's just how much she cares about him. God, I've been wrong about _so much_. I've never even seen her like that before." ('_Calliope and Mark_.' His world tilted.)

"And now they could be anywhere," Hector said dully. "And Mark… Where are you going?"

Linus had started to walk away. "To find Calliope."

"No – stay. You're staying here. _No arguing_. You and I are the only people who get what just happened! And it's going to be absolutely bedlam down there, and I can't do it alone! Andrew –" he choked on the words, "Andrew's in custody. His wrists are chained, Linus – You have to stay. You're staying."

ooo

The three men – Thorfinn, his younger brother Turpin, and their prize, Mark – appeared at a set of gates. The iron of the gates was twining and curling, which was somehow more sinister than if the gates had been ramrod-straight and evenly spaced.

Turpin dropped Mark on the cobblestones as if he were trash. "I can't believe he fell for it," he said, chortling.

"I can decide which would have been better," Thorfinn added, "the way that it happened, or if he hadn't seen the real one."

"I don't know, I think it worked out perfectly this way. I could not have planned it better. Was so afraid that tart was going to follow us here –"

"What about the Fury?"

Turpin looked around, uncomfortable for the first time. "I don't know. She was outnumbered. She'll have the test of her life convincing them – but we've burned that bridge. We've got _him_ now. What's the matter, Muggle?" Turpin addressed Mark. "Not going to crawl away? Not even going to _try_?" He followed Mark's gaze.

Not far away were lights. Streetlamps, and the lights of cars, and farther off a billboard was lit up. Muggle lights.

"Yes," he said softly, "They're so close, barely half a mile away, and yet no one is going to come and help you. Muggles… they leave their own kind to die. Typical."

He got no answer, and chuckled.

"Well, let's get a move on. _Levicorpus!_"

The spell caught Mark by his ankle and flung him into the air, where he rested, his eyes just on a level with the Death Eaters' waists. He raised – lowered? – his head to see the gates open wide. They passed down a long avenue lined with trellises, all almost lost in the fog, and approached lanterns – lanterns affixed to a house. All that Mark could make out of it was that it was tall, with three or four looming towers – a satisfactory evil castle, in a pinch.

As one of the men rang the doorbell Mark realized that this was perhaps his last moment of dignity. His arms were hanging down and his other leg was dangling, that was no way to enter – he clasped his arms behind his back and folded his other leg. In that moment he exactly resembled the card of the Hanged Man that dangled from his neck (and currently, beneath his left ear).

The doors opened wide for them. "Hail the conquering heroes!" crowed a woman's voice. Her hair wild and her shoulders bare, she threw open her arms to greet them. "And they bring a prize! How lovely! How lovely! Won't the Dark Lord be pleased?" She traipsed up to Mark and opened his mouth wide. "What a lovely specimen! And this is – this is the very same one – "

"This is him, Madame," Thorfinn affirmed. "The Presumptuous Muggle, Mark Printzen himself."

Cheers broke out. She skipped about – actually skipped – and then peered away. She walked around the three newcomers. "Where is the Fury?"

"She – "

"She couldn't come," Turpin interrupted his brother.

"Oh? Pray tell, why?"

"You know it takes two of us to bypass the courtroom's anti-Portkey wards. We two grabbed the Muggle when we could, but the Fury had to be left behind."

"Why?" Her voice rose. "What were you so afraid of that you had to leave the Fury behind? And Circe and Proteus?"

'_Who was the Fury_?' Mark asked himself.

"I don't know," Thorfinn said, "But I think that my brother was afraid of that chit – the Ollivander girl. She arrived at the last minute – that's why we had to stop, that's why everything went out of control."

"You two? Afraid of the Ollivander girl?" The woman asked. "She doesn't even have a _wand!_"

"They – " Mark coughed – "They were right to be!"

She looked down at him, a smile twisting her red mouth. "I don't recall anyone asking _you_, you filthy little Mudbuck… but now I'm curious."

She raised Mark up even higher, taking the spell over from Turpentine, so that his face and eyes were on a level with hers. "Exactly why were they right to be afraid of her?"

"Because Calliope is a great witch."

She smiled at him widely. "So you say. The Mudbuck Mark Printzen," she said slowly, as if experimenting with the name. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes; your cruelty reveals everything," he said, stumbling over the words (it wasn't easy to talk upside down). "You're the dread Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Oh, I _like_ that!" She chuckled. "So you've heard of me…"

But she was interrupted in the track of a devious monologue by Turpentine saying "Bellatrix, _do_ let me tell you how I entrapped him, you'll love it!"

She didn't even look at him, but her smile faded. "Go away, Turpentine, nobody needs you anymore."

"Uh—" the sound was shocked, and Mark could just see his figure behind Bellatrix. He looked affronted. "Well, fine, _Lady_ Lestrange, all that I did was capture the bloody buck, I'll just—"

"Yes, you captured him. Which should have been done _yesterday_." Bellatrix Lestrange turned to him and advanced. "Yesterday, when you should have captured him _and_ Calliope Ollivander, you only succeeded in sending the werewolf school into a panic. And today, great, you made up for _all_ of that, by capturing him, excellent. And you left behind three agents to be captured and interrogated, and you ruined the trial that it took _months_ to stage, and you're hopping up and down like a schoolboy who needs to use the loo? Honestly, I don't need you to tell me when I can use Leglimency on _him_, it'll be much more fun, and you are annoying me very much."

"I was the one who salvaged the plan! I was the leader and I made it work despite everything! The Dark Lord _will_ recognize my contribution, just wait and see…"

Bellatrix tossed her hand. "I said, go away."

She turned from him, and Turpentine was trembling with wrath. He raised his wand – Bellatrix saw it and turned –

He screamed "_Crucio!_" The spell hit the Muggle.

Mark screamed, writhing in the air. And when Turpentine lifted the spell, over Mark's panting and gasping, Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Oh, wait, I forgot, you use Unforgivables now. You're so _edgy_."

When the Muggle began to cough and choke, she waved her wand and dropped him to the floor. "Don't you dare compare yourself to me," she went on. "You botch and ruin every 'experiment' you set up, and it's only an indulgence that lets the Dark Lord even keep you – you opportunistic, _presumptuous_ little man. Now, _leave_. And the rest of you!"

And, trembling with fury, clenching his teeth with rage, Turpentine left, leaving Bellatrix alone with Mark.

She turned around to face him. He was lying on the floor and had stopped coughing, and he looked up at her defiantly, without saying a word.

"Oh, don't look like _that_, I'm not going to kill you. Yet. But my Lord and master wants to meet you – have a little talk with you. I think I should get you ready. And, first, let us see _exactly_ how you came to be here, hmm? _Leglimens."_

She stared into his eyes, and rewound and reviewed his memory (arriving at the Ministry, tormenting himself, the trade, the kiss) over – and over – and over. She got bored, and when she saw that a memory of hollyhocks was lurking in the shadows, she leapt into that memory, into the garden. She hooted with laughter, and brought out his memories of Dementors, and Sycorax, and his trials, and then she drew back laughing and dropped Mark, his head spinning, to fall back onto the floor.

Bellatrix didn't perform Leglimency like Turpentine did, with care, deliberation, in a linear stream. She was more like a monkey leaping from one branch to another, falling and keeping steady and falling again. And Mark had a case of vertigo from her assault, so much so that it was only the force of being dragged and the shout of "_Levicorpus_!" that reminded him he was upside down again.

"One last thing, before I send you away…" And Bellatrix was walking towards him again, with a knife in one hand, a wand in the other. "Animals –" with a deft gesture she tore his shirt off of him and tossed it aside, "don't need clothing; why are Muggles any different?"

She let him drop again, and the room was spinning. The air was cold and damp, and the medallion he'd gotten earlier fell cold against his skin.

Bellatrix grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to his knees, to look up at her. "Remember," she said, her voice low. "You – are – an – animal. And wild animals need to be _broken_. Take him away."

She tossed him aside. "To the dungeon. With the others."

Mark had kicked, screamed; raged, cursed, and tried to bite, but his voice was silenced, his legs were locked, and with terrifying efficiency he was cast into a dungeon. The floor was cold stone, and he was thrown onto it so hard he felt his cheek bruising already. The door slammed behind him, loudly, hammering his brain with _Prison. Again. Alone. Trapped_. _Again_.

Worst of all, the kiss he had stolen from the fake-Calliope still burned on his lips. He rubbed his mouth fiercely. How could he have been so _stupid?_

He collapsed onto the floor. The cold seeped into him. When the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears had subsided, he became aware of the silence. Dark and cold and silence, all around, stone floor and walls and his back was to a door – he should fix that.

He tried to scramble away from the door, and in doing so became aware that there was _not_ utter silence.

Someone was talking.

Mark tried to stop breathing, and listened.

The voice was just a whisper, hurried and frantic. Mark strained his ears, not wanting to move closer to the voice: it was probably another prisoner, and he didn't sound… sane.

"Hello?" Said another voice.

Mark jumped. "Who's there?"

"_Lumos_."

Light was born from the darkness, so gradually that Mark's eyes weren't hurt. It didn't come from a wand, but from a torn piece of paper. The man holding the paper was very old, and very thin, hunched over in the corner. His grey hair was wild around his face, and his pale eyes were large and piercing in the gloom.

Mark stared. The man was somehow familiar. "I'm – I'm not going to hurt you," he said, putting up his hand. "Who are you?"

"I am Ollivander – the wandmaker."

"You're – you're – you're Calliope's uncle. _Holy crap_."

Calliope's uncle narrowed his eyes. "How do you know my niece?"

"I'm her friend, please, don't – I'm her friend. And I'm, um, sorry for my language."

Mr. Ollivander appeared to be studying the newcomer. "Come closer. Who are you? Do you know where Calliope is?"

"I'm nobody – I'm just Mark. When I last saw Calliope she was in the – um – the Ministry of Magic…"

Mr. Ollivander's face lit up. "So she's free? She's no longer imprisoned?"

"No – I mean yes – correct, you've got it. She freed herself – I think, a week after she was kidnapped."

"She freed herself?"

"Yes."

"Good girl. Good girl." He said as if to himself, nodding slightly. "I knew she would, she's – wait. You said your name is Mark?"

"Yes."

"Are you Mark Printzen?"

"… Yes? How do you know that?"

"Calliope has told me about you."

"Really? When?"

"When we were imprisoned together, by the Death Eater – I believe they call him Turpentine?"

"What? But – she was alone, then." Then the realization occurred. "She… she doesn't remember you. Turpentine must have made her forget."

Mr. Ollivander's eyes widened in the gloom, and Mark thought he recognized his expression, from Calliope, or maybe Hector. "Oh," he whispered. "I should have thought… of that…"

"I'm sorry," Mark said quickly. "I know she misses you very much, and… well…" he swallowed and stopped.

"Only one more loss. And at least I have my memories of her." Mr. Ollivander looked at Mark, and the hurt was gone from his eyes as if he'd buried it. Now he was keen and inquisitive. "What's happened to her?"

"I don't know. Since I last saw her anything could have happened."

"Don't be evasive."

"I'm telling the truth! I last saw her in the Ministry of Magic."

Mr. Ollivander paused. "You are a Muggle." It was not a question.

"Well, yes."

"And close with my niece?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Ah." Mr. Ollivander said, in a knowing, infuriating way. "Did Turpentine bring you here as well?

"Yeah, he tricked me."

"Do you know who _he_ is?" He nodded to the other person in the cell.

Mark turned. It was Januarius Fell, counting on his fingers, praying the rosary, rushed and quiet.

Mark turned back to Calliope and Linus' uncle. "Well, quite a party we have going here," he said. "That's the reverend Januarius Fell, a friend of your niece Tess, and someone who absolutely hates my guts."

"Why?"

"Partially because I'm a Muggle; mostly because I saved his life."

"Really?" Mr. Ollivander looked wryly curious. "Do tell."

At the words, "I'm a Muggle," Januarius had turned and seen Mark. "Oh. It's you."

Mark sat very still. "Hello, Reverend," he said carefully. "How are you?"

"Not well. Not well. Would you like to see something interesting?" he pulled up the left sleeve of his shirt. Three scars evenly scored his arm – a long one that ran almost the entire length of his forearm, and two smaller ones that crossed it. "The longest one is the oldest. They always found me when I tried to cut again. I think God wants me to have your blood."

Mark repressed a shudder. "Januarius, I know you're angry at me. But we're in the same boat now. Can you please – not be angry at me for a while?"

"Did you know the Death Eaters took me from the hospital? Do you know they broke my wand in front of me? Do you know _why_ they brought me here?" Suddenly fear entered his voice that had been only detached and staccato.

"I don't know why," he answered.

But Mr. Ollivander did answer. "Someone wants him; they're holding him like a shop might hold a special item. But I've heard them talking…" he glanced at the door. "If they can, they will torture him."

In his corner, Januarius shrank, giving a little cry.

"For god's sake, _why_?" Mark asked. "What has he done?"

"They said that some 'Fury' has ideas for him. And that he has the blood of a Muggle in his veins."

"That – that – that was _me_, that was entirely involuntary!"

Ollivander gave a short, bitter laugh. "An ancestress of mine, in the sixteenth century, was raped, and yet she was blamed for it, hated for it, sent away for it. They don't need _volition_ to be part of the crime." Upon hearing this, Januarius Fell scurried onto the edge of the light cast by Mr. Ollivander's paper, and resumed praying.

"That – that's – those—"

"Please stay calm. Tell me how your blood came to be in that man, if I understand you correctly. And what has become of my family?"

Mark sat back on his hands. "That's an even longer story."

"Believe me, we have time. Please tell me all you can."

"Okay…"

ooo

While they talked (and the talk took a long time, as Mr. Ollivander had many questions, and seemed particularly interested in Linus' new wand), Januarius simply lay on his back and tried to count the stones in the ceiling.

"So the Death Eaters were impersonating yourself and Calliope over the radio?" Mr. Ollivander asked, for clarification.

"Yes. Calliope thought she knew who the two impersonators were. Hector said something about Polyjuice…"

"Polyjuice. Fascinating."

Mark arched an eyebrow. "Will that be your only comment, Mr. Spock?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Just – these are your family being impersonated, accusing me of rape, and your first response is 'Fascinating.'"

"Well, it is, all the more so because it _is_ my family – we're a truly ancient name, though our numbers have decreased. An attack on the Ollivander family by a Muggle carries a certain – _connotation_ – that it wouldn't carry with a newer name, say the Malfoys."

"The Malfoys aren't new," Januarius Fell commented from the shadows.

"They're from, what, the Norman Invasion?" Mr. Ollivander replied. "They're new."

"And radio isn't?" Mark asked.

"Oh, radio is very new," Mr. Ollivander agreed. "But it's powerful by itself. I remember well – and Turpentine would also remember – the day when Grindelwald was defeated. Everyone was crowded around their radios, hearing that this darkest of Dark wizards, had actually surrendered. We heard the cheering of the soldiers – and Dumbledore himself came on to speak very briefly – and then the commentators themselves, were simply sobbing with relief. It was a day that no one who lived it ever forgot. And they're doing something like that again."

"What, with this fake trial? But no one's going to –" he stopped. "Everyone's going to believe it."

"Indeed, Mr. Printzen; you have just entered the annals of legend."

"Of course. _Of course_. This fits into that narrative that everyone is willing to read already – us versus them, that Muggles are evil and despicable and will rape witches as soon as given the chance – "

"Well, I think you're being a little extreme there…"

"It's outright propaganda, it's a staged play. Will anyone actually realize its source? 'Hi, I'm Bellatrix Lestrange, and I approve this message'?"

"It's very shrewd."

"I mean… shit. But what I can't get – and maybe you can help me with this – is why Linus reverted back to his belief that I had raped Calliope. She learned about it, after we were attacked, and talked him out of it. He seemed okay but I told you earlier, he was spouting it again like he'd seen it with his own eyes. Is there some spell that can poison your mind? Because it sounded like Linus, only completely wrong and unable to realize it. … Basically business as usual," he added to himself.

"That is interesting… I might guess. It might be the Imperius Curse."

"Is it? I'd heard about it and I wondered…"

Mr. Ollivander paused before answering. "The curse of complete control over another human. Some people think that the Imperius Curse is always a total subjugation of the victim's will, leaving them a soundless shell except for the commands – and that is a way to cast it. But to the subtlest casters – though perhaps not the most powerful – Imperius is a conduit, delivering a voice from one mind to another, to be used on a whim, but otherwise allowing the victim to live their normal life. That is – that _must_ be – what has been done to Linus. Turpentine would be capable of it."

"It certainly reeks of Turpentine," Mark said carefully.

Mr. Ollivander (who clearly did not approve of puns) gave him a stern look. "So you arrived at the trial…"

"Yes…" And Mark explained what had happened until the point when he had re-entered the courtroom. "But the two Death Eaters were there, Turpin and his brother. And Turpin took Calliope prisoner, before I could do anything. And the other one was preparing a – whatchamacallit – a Portkey. And he said… Basically he'd let her go only if I traded myself. Don't give me that look."

Mr. Ollivander blinked. "And what look is that?"

"You're trying to ask me 'Did you actually fall for it,' with only your eyebrows. Well, I did fall for it. Happy?"

"It does seem slightly simplistic. But go on."

"And…" Mark didn't even try to fight the blush, only now it was a blush of embarrassment and fury, which were somewhat manlier sentiments, "Only right before the Portkey took off – did I look back – and Calliope was in the door. The _real_ Calliope."

"Ah."

"And I looked at the one I had k—rescued, and she was _smiling_. She had a smile I have _never_ seen on my girl. And I realized I had made a mistake. I had rescued the one who was the fake, the imposter, the whole time. And… that's when they took me here."

"And they took away your shirt."

"Yes."

"And that's when you made my acquaintance."

"Yes. I'm glad I got to meet you. And hey, look, I have a chaplain here ready to hear Confession. Appropriate."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, because I'm going to die soon."

Mr. Ollivander sat up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look, I'm in the clutches of the Death Eaters. I'm going to be tortured and killed in a matter of hours. It's over. This is how it ends." He let out what remained of his breath. "At least I told her I love her."

"You coward."

"_What_?" Mark stood up, turned to Mr. Ollivander.

"You're in love with my niece, Calliope, aren't you? _Aren't you_?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Then how _dare_ you simply give up on her like this?"

"I—"

"My god, I should have hoped my grand-niece could have found a man _worthy_ of her."

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Januarius stopped his praying and looked over at them. This was more interesting than attempting to commune with God, at this rate.

"_My_ memory has not been modified. I remember the day that Calliope and I awoke in a new prison. Until she was told, flatly and in no uncertain terms, that you were in prison, she _never_ doubted you. She was certain that you would save her – you, and Linus, and her friend Dora. No matter where she was, you would find her. And _this_ is how you return that faith? By giving into despair?"

"I'm trying to face reality! For the first time in months, I can't hide behind a story. I have to face the truth – I'm a weak, stupid Muggle and no one is going to help me."

"Why are you here, though?"

"Because I was an idiot."

"Because you believed in something more than in yourself. In what did you believe?"

"In… in…"

"_What_?"

"In love!"

"_Exactly_. And Calliope made the exact same choice as you, for the same reason, and she never gave up on you. We Ollivanders seem cold, but our passions run deep within us, and, Mr. Printzen, she loves you."

Mark stopped. His eyes widened. He looked at the old man, mouthing, "What?"

Mr. Ollivander folded his arms and enjoyed the silence. "You heard what I said."

Finally Mark found his voice. "You're wrong."

The slight smile that had lit up Mr. Ollivander's face faded as he furrowed his brow again. "Am I?"

"She doesn't love me. She told me so just earlier today."

"But that's – _oh_. Oh, that does make sense…"

"Yes, it makes sense. A beautiful, powerful witch would never see a stupid Muggle as anything more than…"

"No. Stop that, right now. No more self-pity. I have had enough with that troublesome _priest_ –" he pointed to Januarius – "and _his_ self-pity. You said so when you arrived, her memory of the time she spent imprisoned with me had been Modified."

"Yes… and?"

"She told you this – how she feels – earlier today?"

"Yes. Because it was the truth."

"Did she now? Curious. So what you have is the more recent testimony, of a Calliope post-memory Modification. Whereas she told me, pre-memory Modification, and under the influence of Veritaserum, that she loves you. Do you know what Veritaserum is? It is impossible to lie under its influence. Even if it weren't for that, I know my niece."

"Why didn't she know earlier, then?"

"You understand how a Memory Charm works, do you? They're made to make Muggles forget about magic. It's useless to make someone forget a precise conclusion if they're still able to put the pieces together! She'll never be able to recognize her own heart as long as that spell is in place. I repeat: Calliope is in love with you."

Mark sat back down on the ground. His eyes were wide, and his jaw had dropped. He was, once more, speechless.

Mr. Ollivander took the piece of parchment and illuminated it again, reinvigorating the light in the dungeon. "And if I may finish my earlier point," he said firmly, "Calliope loves you, and she traded herself for you. She didn't give up on you until she was forced to. And wizard or Muggle, you are a coward and entirely unworthy of her if you give up on her so easily."

Mark made no response. The old man gave a wry smile and turned to Januarius. "I think he needs some time to get used to the idea."

"There is a time to build down, and a time to tear up," the preacher muttered vaguely, before returning to counting on his fingers. Mr. Ollivander supposed he had a point.

"But…" Mark swallowed. "You really mean it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, god, she loves me! But this…"

"If you ask me one more time, if I'm sure, I am going to…"

"No, no, this explains everything. Earlier today she was so – she seemed distracted, unsure, worse than usual, oh, because her memory's been taken apart and glued back together, my poor Calliope – _my_ Calliope – because _she loves me!_ Oh… oh, Mr. Ollivander, you have restored me to life," Mark sighed.

ooo

Mark let himself lose track of time. Januarius finished a rosary and decided he would try to sleep. Mr. Ollivander had long given up caring about the present time – until footsteps sounded, coming down the hall.

"_Nox_." The light went out from Mr. Ollivander's scrap of paper. They fell silent. The door opened. The hall lights glittered on silvery fingers. "A bit of news for you all," came a scratchy voice that put Mark in mind of a rat. "The Fury's come back to bask in the glory."

"What glory?" Mr. Ollivander asked. "Who is the Fury?"

"Oh, sorry I didn't let you in the loop," a face came into view, pale and pointed, that matched the voice. "The Fury's a new recruit. It's her wot made this day possible. Capturin' _him_, foolin' the Ministry. And she's back. And she's killed your niece, for good measure."

"Who?" Mr. Ollivander was breathless.

"Missy Calliope." And Wormtail was about to say something else but Mark was up and _running_, Wormtail only just closed the door in time for Mark to throw himself against it.

"You're lying," he cried, "Tell me you're lying!"

"Just repeatin' what I heard," Wormtail's eyes glittered through the opening in the door. "Mind that temper, Mudbuck."

Mark began to yell through the door, "_You lying bast_—" when a spell struck him in the face. He fell back, and when Mr. Ollivander had summoned the light and reached him, he was moaning, a fresh cut on his temple, hands covering his face, "No… _no_…"

"Mr. Printzen – Mark –" Mr. Ollivander looked around the cell. "Reverend, get me that blanket over there, quickly. Not that one, the new one, it'll be cleaner… Give it to me… What are you waiting for?"

Januarius was hanging back. "Blood… so much blood…"

"Oh, for God's sake, _grow up_." Mr. Ollivander seized the blanket from the priest. He held it in his hands, gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. "_Scourgify_." He repeated "_Scourgify_" until the cloth was soapy and damp. He laid one hand, as gently as he remembered how to be, on Mark's head. "Chin back, Mark. I need to clean the wound."

Mark shook his head, but complied anyway. "What are you doing? It doesn't matter."

Mr. Ollivander closed his eyes. When he opened them, the world was the same: he was an old, helpless man, imprisoned, with Mr. Printzen staring ahead blankly, and Mr. Fell in a corner, as far from the blood as he could get. Calliope was dead. Philomel was dead. Tisiphone had betrayed them. Voldemort had returned.

"I'm doing as I always have." He lifted the blanket to mop away the blood on Mark's forehead. "I endure."


	28. Daughters of Hollywyck

**Daughters of Hollywyck**

Calliope and the Other Calliope fell onto grass. The one shoved the other one off of her, and they looked around.

"Where are we?" one of them asked.

"Hollywyck," answered the other.

And so it was. In the setting sunlight reflected from the windows into their eyes, dazzling them both.

The two looked at each other, silently asking how they had ended up there, then deciding the question was not important. Not as important as the fact that the other Calliope was getting up and running towards the house, and Calliope followed, until at the door to the kitchen the other one turned around suddenly, the white wand pointed in her pursuer's face.

"Hey!" she cried. Calliope stopped in her tracks, shocked by the sight of her own wand turned against her. "Why are you so mad? Be honest, now," the other one went on rapidly. "Is it because stole your name, betrayed Mark, and sent him to his death? Or is it because I got to tongue him?" She smiled widely. "Because believe me, you didn't miss much. He tastes _awful_—"

And she broke off, laughing, to shoot a spell at Calliope and send her flying. She crashed into the hollyhocks as the imposter disappeared into the house.

In the ensuing dizziness, she had time for a little confusion, a seed of second-guessing, until she worked out, '_She has my wand_. _So I'm without a wand, all I have to do is take it from her, and I am set_. _I can do Weatherwax magic_.' She looked up at Hollywyck. It seemed vast and impregnable, a fortress of the enemy. And she was tired.

Something was scratching her hand. It was a crushed hollyhock stem. The perfume floated up to her and reminded her…

_Mark_.

She stood up. Her anger was recharged. She entered the house at a run.

She surprised the other one, who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She pointed her wand, and Calliope grabbed the nearest thing to hand – which happened to be a knife – and pointed it at her doppelganger.

Laughing, the Other One started to raise her wand, when a _crack_ sounded. Scurry appeared in the kitchen standing between them. Her arms were raised, and her magic froze them both.

"_Stop! _You shall not harm a daughter of Hollywyck!" The knife flew from Calliope's hand. But then the imperious tone of the house-elf's voice faded. "Missus? What is going on?" She looked, confusion dawning in her eyes, between Calliope and the other one.

"Scurry, LEAVE. That is an order!" The other Calliope had spoken. "I said _LEAVE!_"

Scurry gave a great twitch, and vanished. She took her magic with her, freeing the two of them. The other one ran, and Calliope ran after her through the dark house. There was just enough light from outside to see by. The library door was open.

She flexed her left hand – _if only she had a wand!_ – and pushed the library door open –

Some spell shoved her inside and shut the door when she had meant to enter quietly. The sunset light reflected back at her from a dozen surfaces, blinding her – but where had the light come from? Afterimages blurred her sight, and with difficulty she could make it out: the library itself was completely transformed. It was all mirrors. The door behind Calliope was a mirror. Mirrors on the walls, propped up against the couch, and as Calliope stepped out of the glare, she saw herself reflected back a hundred times over, in the reflections within reflections within reflections –

And then the dizziness set in.

This was Hollywyck; this had been Benedicte's home as much as it had been Calliope's.

She lost her footing; she swayed and toppled, and set out her hand to lean against a mirror – looking into it, was that Benedicte's face looking back at her?

She turned around – there was _her_, and then there was Calliope, and another, and another, and another…

And Benedicte was in the room with her.

She sank to the floor, trying to control the uncertainty and déjà vu that was overwhelming her.

But there was a Calliope still standing. Long black hair. High forehead. Staring silver eyes.

She turned around.

The other Calliope towered over her. Said nothing.

Finally,

"Who are you?" asked the Calliope who was kneeling on the floor.

"I'm Calliope Ollivander," said the one who was standing, "and you are a reflection."

"No. I was – I have –" then her head snapped up. "I don't have to prove, I _am_."

"Really?" she knelt into the exact reverse of the other's position. "Don't let's get philosophical. I have Calliope's wand. I have Calliope's name; Linus protected me, the entire Wizengamot recognized me. Who are you to defy the Wizengamot?"

The dizziness, the dizziness… so many reflections…

"Mark traded himself for me. For _me_. Not for you. No one loves you. Your past is not your own; you're haunted by ghosts; you're insane. Then who are you?"

"I'm not…"

"You _are not_." She pulled out her wand, pale linden wood. "You… are… nothing."

Behind her, a hundred other Calliopes drew wands of linden against a hundred other Calliopes…

And the wandless one was overwhelmed with a memory. Uncle Servaas handing the wand to her, with care, on her tenth birthday. He told her, "_Remember. Now that you have a wand, you are really and truly a witch. And this wand and you shall grow together over the years. You will always know it… and it will always know you."_

Calliope closed her eyes. She laid her hands flat on the wooden floor.

"Now –"

"_Expelliarmus_."

The magic swept through the floor like a wave. The white wand was struck from the other's hand as if by a blow. The conjured-up mirrors vanished. They were only two, on the floor of the library.

"How did you _do_ that?" asked the other, breathlessly.

The wand landed on the couch.

Flatly, "I don't know."

They both stood up, each reaching for the wand on the couch. One was closer, but the real one grabbed at her and wouldn't let go. She _held on_ as the other one struggled, shrieking, "Let go of me! Let go!"

There was one mirror left in the room, and it hung on a nearby wall. She shoved her towards that, slammed her against the glass, and pressed her there, so that as she turned to one side to try and avert Calliope's gaze, she met only another Calliope – her own profile in reflection.

"Stop struggling," Calliope hissed between her teeth. "And now, I'm only going to ask you one more time. Where is Mark? And who are you?"

"Or what?" she asked, slack under the other's fists. "You'll play classical music at me?"

On the other side of the library, the grandfather clock began to chime. It was five o'clock.

"Aha," said the other one softly, relaxing against the mirror.

"_Tell me_." Calliope demanded.

"You really want to know?" she glanced over, through lowered lids. "Look at me."

Calliope realized what was happening: the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off.

In the mirror and out of it, the other Calliope smiled and closed her eyes, sighing deeply. Her hair lightened, lengthened and thickened, though it held its braid against the strain. The bones of her face shifted, her skin tone lightened, and then…

The changes stopped.

She opened her eyes. They were silver.

"Hello, coz," said Tisiphone Gibbs.

The shock made Calliope lose her grip. The Fury took her opening, shoving Calliope back and pitching her onto the low table.

She grabbed the wand. "_Stupefy!_"

Calliope just managed to dodge. She ran to the nearest doorway. She put her hands on the frame. Concentrate. "_Protego!_"

The spell didn't work. "_Protego!_" she let blind panic fuel her magic, and it worked. On the other side of the doorframe, Tess' next spell bounced off.

Tess. _Tisiphone_. Tisiphone was _fighting her_. Impersonating her. Baring her teeth at her. "You think you're so clever. You forget, this house is mine by rights, too."

She advanced, holding up Calliope's wand. Uncle's gift to her.

"Stop," Calliope begged. Then, again, "_Stop_. Tess, we're family, I deserve an explanation." Tisiphone's eyes narrowed, and Calliope demanded, "In Uncle Servaas' name, why? Why?"

"Why are you so surprised? Wasn't I always the angry one, the 'unstable one'? Isn't that exactly what you always said about me?"

"You're a Death Eater! They killed your father! Benedicte! And Uncle!"

They were on opposite sides of the Shield-Charmed door. "I am _not_ a Death Eater," Tisiphone growled between clenched teeth. "But the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

She was about to cancel the Charm – Calliope ran into the parlor – damn it, there was nowhere to hide! Tess knew this house just as well as she did. Keep her talking, then… that was the only strategy she could come up with.

"But I am not your enemy." Another Shield Charm? No… There was a wooden chair. That could make a wand. How many more spells did she have in her?

"Actually, you are," Tisiphone entered.

Calliope turned. Gripped the chair. "_Immobulus_," she put all the strength she could into the Freezing Charm.

And it worked! Tisiphone was frozen in place.

Mostly.

Her eyes still moved, and she could open her mouth to say, "This spell isn't as strong as you think it is."

"That's what I wanted." Lies. "You will answer me. Why am I your enemy? What did I do?"

Tisiphone stopped. "What did you do? Are you really that forgetful?"

"Yes! I'm so stupid! Explain!" Talk and maybe—

"Oh, you're unbelievable." Yes, fury – Tess was forgetting to use magic, now. She clenched her free fist and tensed like a woman scorned. "Of course you're so much better than the rest of us puny mortals, you can ruin your family, they're only your flesh and blood, and _not even remember_!"

"_I_ am ruining the family?"

"You started it, with that Muggle – giving him ideas, treating him like an equal, making him love you."

The tone in her voice brought her anger back. "_Stop that_, where is Mark?"

"He's only in one of the Death Eater hideouts. Even I don't know which one."

"You liar!"

"I don't know, and I never bothered to find out."

It started to sink in, but Calliope refused to accept it, it couldn't be – "you… you…"

"Yes, cous? What am I?"

"You _bitch!_"

"Yeah? I'm not the one who's been sleeping with a Mudbuck."

"I haven't been, and don't talk about him like that!"

"You brought him here and then that black one followed, and he took Hector away from me, seducing him and turning him against me! And that Muggle pumped his blood into Januarius, _my_ Jan, and drove him insane!"

"He was trying to save his life!"

"Don't feed me that bullshit! Jan was fine until _your_ Muggle corrupted him!"

"It was a matter of life and death, it was Januarius' choice to attempt suicide. And Hector loves Andrew! Can't you –"

"_Shut up! Shut up, don't you say another word!_" Tisiphone was struggling against the magic, and Calliope could feel it weakening. She grabbed the chair again, reinforcing the spell with another _Immobulus_.

"But why the Death Eaters? Why, Tess, couldn't you have just _talked_ to me instead of doing – all this?"

"You don't understand."

"No, I really don't."

"He drove Januarius insane."

"And you – " comprehension dawned. "You're in love with him."

"Yes." Tisiphone stared at Calliope, her grey eyes blazing, as if daring her to mock her. "Circe Goshawk promised she'd cook something up to help Jan… give him his mind back, clean his blood of the Muggle taint, whatever had to be done. I couldn't get that with anyone else. And the chance to throw both of those American sods in Azkaban – that was worth it."

"_Worth_ it?"

"Wasn't it? I made sure Hector was gone so he wouldn't be hurt. The others have taken care of Januarius until Circe can brew that potion. And you, you of course got to play the sad little victim, boo-hoo-hoo. Oh, I had fun doing that."

"The others?"

"Yes, like Turpentine. He told me the most _interesting_ secrets about you. Enough that I think –" she twisted in her place. "—that when this is over –" she jerked her right hand with the wand free –"I'll have no trouble impersonating you for a good, long time."

"One last question. Where did you get my wand?"

"This? Turpentine pulled a few strings in the Ministry. I wanted to get in-character, as they say."

"Oh. Fascinating."

And Calliope ran.

She felt the snap of the spell as she was halfway down the hall. A crazy idea was taking shape in her head. She ran up the stairs, almost tripping on her long skirt.

Tisiphone, when she had shaken off the effects of the spell, followed, with long strides, taking the stairs two at a time. There was no real hurry. She knew this house as well as her cousin. There was nowhere to hide.

She entered the hallway just as the door to Calliope's bedroom swung shut. Tisiphone had the sudden, hilarious image of her cousin hiding under her bed like a child. She flung open the door to the bedroom, just as there was another slamming sound.

In a panel of the walls, a secret door stood slightly ajar.

Tisiphone didn't remember that secret door, but she opened it anyway with a twitch of her wand.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be " she said, stepping towards it, gaining in speed, "Come out, come out, wherever you –"

She rushed into the room, and stopped. "—are…"

She looked around in wonder. She did not know this place.

A large red curtain hung over the bed, and the shelves were filled with books and small, foreign carvings.

"What is this place?" she asked nobody.

And nobody answered. Calliope, lurking behind the door, pushed it shut and sprang forward in the same movement. Tisiphone turned at the sound, wand at the ready. But Calliope had grabbed her cousin's braid – her long, long braid of chestnut hair – and cried, "_Stupefy!_"

And Tisiphone fell to the floor, Stunned. The wand rolled from her hand.

Calliope leaned against the doorframe, her knees trembling. _It had worked_. The hair of a magical creature – any magical creature, including a witch – could be the channel for magical energy. Just that in this case, the hair was still attached to the magical creature, and that creature was also the intended victim of the spell –

The room was spinning.

Calliope moved slowly towards the bed.

Everything of the past twenty-four hours – from the attack at Agnes Stidolph onwards – crashed over her, like a rising tide. She fell on the bed, drained, spent.

'_It's not over yet…_' was the last, faintly defiant thought she had before falling unconscious.

ooo

"_Now when day is done, and night is near, I recall the song I used to hear…_"

Someone was singing.

"_My child, my very own, don't be afraid, you're not alone, sleep until the dawn, for all is well…_"

The song drew Calliope out of unconsciousness, a reverse-lullaby sung in a gentle melancholy voice.

"_Long ago this song was sung to me, now it's just a distant melody… somewhere from the past I used to know… once upon a time, and long ago._"

Calliope opened her eyes. The sunset light was shining through the window, striping the bed and floor. Tess, a girl of eleven, lay unconscious on the floor. Calliope sat up and looked at herself, at her hands. She was a nine-year-old girl again. This was slightly odd.

"Well done, Shrimp."

Calliope turned. Sitting on the bed with her, beaming at her, was a teenage girl with short black hair and an ankh necklace – and silver eyes. "I mean, Calliope. Don't mind the nickname, force of habit. You've done wonderfully today. I'm very proud of you."

"Benedicte," Calliope said in wonder.

"The one and only – don't touch me." She held up a hand when Calliope reached forward.

"Am I dead? Are we dead?"

"Well," Benedicte leaned back on her hands. "It's Halloween. It's sunset. It's the day I was born and the day I died. And you've been connected to me – spiritually, mentally, grammatically – for quite some time. No, you're not dead, but we're on the border. Between day and night, and living and dead. Let's not think about it too much."

"So why am you here talking to me?" Calliope hugged herself, rather chilled.

"I need to tell you a few things. Are you listening? We don't have much time."

"Yes." Calliope gripped the comforter in her fists.

"There is still a connection between my spirit and yours. By this meeting, I'm giving you some closure, but until you get rid of the excess memories, you won't be whole. You follow me?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you can find that painting of us, and touch it, that will get rid of the memories that are inside of you. And it so happens that I know where it is, and I can teach you how to find it."

"… Good. That's good."

"And," Benedicte added, raising her eyebrows, "Uncle Servaas is in that same place."

"He is?" Calliope stopped, her eyes widening. "Wait… Uncle… I saw him. Recently. In the basement – we were captured together. Benny – I remember!"

Benedicte said softly, "Here, Memory Charms are removed too."

"That's wonderful – this is wonderful! That's where I learned Weatherwax Magic." She looked back at her big sister. "So when I go there, I'll find Uncle, right?"

"And Mark."

"Mark?" she repeated. And her eyes widened. She gasped and looked away, her cheeks turning pink.

"What are you remembering?" Benedicte gave a slightly sad smile.

"I… I'm in love with him. How could I forget that?" She rubbed at her eyes. "How could I forget?"

"Turpentine is a very powerful Obliviator. Are you ready to listen?"

"Of course!" Calliope wiped her eyes fiercely. "Where do I need to go?"

"All right. The painting of the three of us, and Uncle Servaas and Mark, are all at Bindweed Hall." As she said it, an image of an ancestral hall – definite, if brief – occurred to Calliope. She knew what Bindweed Hall looked like, and where it was, and she could find it, and enter it, whatever charms the Death Eaters may have placed.

"When you find it, find my painting, and the greater Memory Charm that has been cast on me will be broken. But it will be up to you to get Uncle and Mark out of there."

"… How?"

"You can do it, Calliope. I believe in you so much."

"But why me?" the girl asked, letting herself be more vulnerable than she ever would be awake.

"Chance. Isn't that everything? I know you never asked for this."

Calliope nodded. She looked to the figure of Tess lying on the floor. "Benedicte – what will I do about Tisiphone?"

"Before she wakes up, restrain her. That was a powerful Stunning Spell you cast; she'll be out cold for a while. You'll come up with something."

"But I mean – how can I forgive her? How could she have done this to me? To us?"

Benny tilted her head, her eyes full of sadness. "I'm sorry, Shrimp. Love and anger and pain sometimes get the best of us… and anyone can lose their way. Like Barty."

"Bartemius Crouch?"

"Poor kid. After my death, he made a horrible leap of logic – he decided that my murder was not going to be in vain. That was what sustained him for years, until Azkaban, and he didn't need logic to sustain him anymore. Calliope."

The girl looked up from her cousin on the floor to look at her sister. Benny went on, "Don't be angry at Tess, if it's at all possible. She's had so much anger and bitterness in her life already. That's all I ask."

"I'll try," Calliope muttered. She looked back up at Benedicte. "Are you…"

"Yes, you're talking to the real me."

"… Are you with Mum?"

Benedicte smiled. "I'm the only one who can meet you now, but I am with Mum. She's very proud of you. Of everything you've been doing. You and Linus. She sends you both her love. And so do I, of course," she added.

Calliope felt her eyes fill up with tears again, and she brushed them away. "Th—thank you. But I can't keep blabbing. I've got people to save. I'd best be going."

"That would be wise, probably," Benedicte nodded, sitting up straight. "Will you tell Linus – tell him the same? We love him and are proud of him. Jeez, there's so many messages I want to send…"

"I'll just try and be your goodbye, then." Calliope could feel a shift in the dream, could feel it shifting away from under her. And a part of her – maybe the part that felt like a nine-year-old child – just wanted this moment to last, and last, and not end.

"Something like that." From the look in Benedicte's eyes, she had the same wish. "You know where to go. Bindweed Hall."

"Yes. And I'll…"

"You'll figure something out."

"Will I ever see you again?" She blurted.

Benedicte gave a smile of such warmth, and peace, and light, that Calliope had to smile too. "Well…" She leaned forward as if she wanted to whisper in Calliope's ear. Calliope bent forward a little and closed her eyes. Benedicte's voice was low and gentle:

"To die will be an awfully big adventure."

And Benedicte kissed her forehead.

And Calliope opened her eyes.

The sun had set. She sat up slowly on Benedicte's bed, but something was in her hand. It was her wand. Nine and three quarter inches. Linden wood.

That was good. But…

She looked over onto the floor. Tisiphone was still lying there in the same attitude as before, minus wand. She hadn't moved at all.

And yet the wand had somehow moved from Tisiphone's hand, to Calliope's – where it belonged.

"You know, I don't have time for this," Calliope muttered as she slid off the edge of the bed. Briefly she stopped and looked at the place where, in her dream, Benedicte had been sitting.

She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, then set to work.

ooo

Calliope thought she had been more than reasonable. She'd Conjured up rope (with her wand!) and tied Tisiphone up, depositing her on the bed in the Master Bedroom (with her wand!) while Tisiphone remained unconscious.

God, it was good to have a wand again.

She remembered the radio broadcast had said that "Calliope" was wearing a pink blouse. She'd taken one of her own blouses and Charmed it to be pink, but a respectable, ashen pink. The fingerless gloves and jacket she'd stolen, and Charmed her long black skirt to be the perfect duplicate of her _other_ long black skirt, which Tisiphone was still wearing. And a long black cloak, naturally, and a small bag with an Extension Charm inside.

Bit by bit, a plan was taking shape in her mind. She wasn't developing it the normal way to develop plans, namely, by sitting down, perhaps with a parchment and quill, and listing out possible events, one-two-three. This was vaguer and more improvisational. She figured if she sat down to think about it she may end up screaming. So no sitting down for her.

She noted a collection of small but varied potion bottles hidden in the inner pockets of her (Tisiphone's) jacket. She was about to start investigating when a crash and rustling from outside sounded.

She gripped her wand (god, it was good to have her wand back) and stepped outside of the kitchen door to investigate.

There – on the lawn, Scurry had re-appeared. Clinging to her hand was Guadalupe Santos.

"Why are you here?" Calliope asked as they approached.

"No idea," Guadalupe said. "The house-elf just appeared at Hogwarts in front of Julietta and me, and said that something was gone wrong here, you were back, but there were two of you? And you made her leave?"

"She can't disobey a direct order from an Ollivander." Calliope nodded to the elf in acknowledgment. "Well done, Scurry."

"Oh, only my duty, Miss," Scurry said, curtsying.

Guadalupe looked no less confused than before. "Well, the headmaster asked her to explain everything, she did, and then I offered to go back with her. She wanted that, y'see, she said she was forbidden to intervene. What's going on?"

"Something quite urgent," she lowered her wand. "And it's good that you've arrived. If you can stand guard on… on…" She paused for the right word.

Guadalupe supplied, "On the person you fought?"

"Yes… If you can stay, that would be great." The girl nodded. "Then come inside. Scurry, go back to Dumbledore and tell him that Calliope Ollivander has won, and that Tisiphone Gibbs betrayed us."

"She did _what_?" Scurry cried. "She couldn't… not Miss Tess…"

"Scurry, please… I'm sorry, you have to relay the message. Tell Dumbledore that Tisiphone is contained for now." Scurry's eyes filled up with tears, but when Calliope insisted, she obeyed, disappearing with a _crack_ and a small sob. Calliope led Lupe inside. "The person that I fought…"

"Hey, you have a wand now," the girl observed.

"Yes, I do. I took it back from _her_." She opened the door to the Master Bedroom and showed Guadalupe Tisiphone's unconscious body on the bed. "I put a Stunning Spell on her, but that – the entire fight – cost a lot of my energy. I _should_ put a spell on her to bind her further, but I'm tired, and I need to save my energy – desperately. So if she wakes up, I need you to be here to stop her. Make sure that she doesn't leave. I don't know how long I'll be gone…"

"Where's Mark?" she asked abruptly. Calliope caught her breath. She pushed on, "_Where's Mark_?"

"He got captured – captured by the Death Eaters. _She's_ the one who allowed that," She pointed to the tied-up figure, "so you remember that if she wakes up and tries to get you on her side. All right?"

"You said you would take care of him."

"I'm doing that. I'm going to rescue him."

Guadalupe stared at Calliope in shock, with a little bit of admiration mixed in. Calliope had no time for that, so she headed down the hallway.

Guadalupe ran to catch up with the witch. "Hey, is there anything you need to know from her?"

"I'm trying to figure that out right now," Calliope answered, squinting at the contents of the flask in the cloak pocket. Probably Polyjuice. What would happen if she took Polyjuice Potion to impersonate herself?

"Because, I mean, I was thinking, if you woke her up, you could use _me_ to threaten her. You know, like, 'Ooh, I've got a werewolf here, so you better tell the truth.' Because even if it's not full moon, I can catch her scent and track it down – she'll _never_ be able to sleep easy at night. That's really scary, isn't it?"

Calliope glared at her. "We won't be waking her up at all. And anyway, don't talk like that."

"Why not?"

"Because such methods are beneath you."

"But – that's what Greyback taught us."

"I know Greyback was your teacher." Calliope was entering the kitchen and emptying the flask out into the sink. The girl followed her. "But Mark was your teacher, too. And such methods are beneath him, therefore, they're not worthy of you. We're not discussing this any further."

Lupe was silent for a moment as Calliope considered if there was anything else left to do. Then she said, "You're right. I was wrong to – yeah. Wrong."

"Don't worry. It's been a long day. And I … am leaving now. There's nothing else to do here."

"Good luck," the girl blurted.

Calliope didn't dare give her more than a sidelong glance. "Same to you."

She stepped outside of the house and closed the door behind her.

A storm was coming. Since she had entered Hollywyck, everything had been changed. ('_Tisiphone,_' she thought. '_Benedicte. Januarius._') In fact, since arriving there this morning, everything had changed. ('_Mark. Joey Reed. Andrew. Mark…_')

What more could possibly change?

'_Don't ask_.'

Would she ever return here?

The seconds passing were overwhelming, but for just a moment, she took in the house entire, and the garden, and the sky, the forest – everything that was sweet and good and part of her. She looked one last time at the crushed flowers.

Then she closed her eyes tightly. Everything was about to change.

She opened them. _She_ would be the one changing.

She sent out a Patronus – she had never been able to send out messenger Patronuses before, but with her wand in her hand, anything was possible. She sent only one, to Dora. After she had listed out the brief facts, it said, "_Don't try to follow me; I will contact you later_." The silver light flew out over the dark horizon as if riding the wind.

"Where am I to go?" she asked no-one. And from nowhere came the answer.

_Bindweed Hall_.

Opening her eyes, she put on the black fingerless gloves, like the gauntlets of a warrior.

She took her wand. Pale linden, nine and three quarter inches, phoenix feather.

She was ready.

Calliope turned on her heel and Disapparated.


	29. Bindweed Hall

**Bindweed Hall**

****A/N: I know this is long. Oh, god, it's long. But bear through it - this is the home stretch, plotwise. Feel free to review, and thank you, THANK you, for reading this far.

* * *

><p>North in Hollywyck the storm was arriving. At Bindweed Hall the storm was already in progress.<p>

The tall woman strode through the rain and the wards one by one. She was stopped at the gate.

"Who goes there?"

"Tisiphone Gibbs. I'm expected inside."

The guard – a greasy young man not long out of Hogwarts – squinted at her. "Hey! Bert!" a second guard came over. "She says she's Tisiphone Gibbs. I never met her before, 'ave you?"

Bert looked her over. "I've not seen 'er, but heard of 'er. Tall, skinny, dark hair, eyes like gimlets…"

"Are you done?" she asked sharply.

"… Stick up 'er arse," finished Bert. "Yeah, seems to be her."

"She got past the wards," the first guard muttered.

"Then what question is there?" the woman demanded.

"Er…" the first guard hesitated.

Burt rolled his eyes. "Oscar, don't call me over for tripe like this." He paced away and Oscar let Tisiphone Gibbs in.

"If you don't mind, Miss, the walk's a bit flooded. I'll guide you around the puddles."

"Thank you," she said coolly.

They approached the house. A few spare windows were lit against the darkness. The lanterns by the front door gave an illumination to great stone walls covered with twining stems – vines of every sort, nearly naked against the mid-autumn storm. A lightning flash – perfectly timed – illuminated the great stone building, and the words above the door: _Mai Lasciare_.

Oscar saw Tisiphone Gibbs looking at the words, and grinned. "Italian. 'Never Let Go.' Me old family motto."

She looked at him with something like confusion. "_Your_ family motto?"

"Yep – the Matins, that's us. And here you are, Miss Gibbs."

She did not thank him. She had once again assumed coldness. She tugged on the door-pull, and after a moment the door was opened.

The black-clad doorman frowned. "Are you – Miss Gibbs?"

"I'm in disguise," she answered, "as my cousin Calliope."

"But that's – why are you _still_ in disguise?"

She rolled her eyes. "If Circe's told me once, she's told me a million times – Calliope is related to me, so Polyjuice Potion I take to look like her will last longer than if I'd been some random stranger. But I suppose you've never heard her Potion lectures, have you?" Seeing that the doorman still hesitated, she said, "I'm warning you, my patience is running thin and this rain is pouring thick and fast –"

"Yes, Miss Gibbs, of course, come in, Miss Gibbs."

And then Calliope stepped over the threshold of Bindweed Hall.

The entrance hall was large and wide. Thick tapestries covered the stone walls, blanketing the heat in. Above the great fireplace, an old portrait of a bearded man with a white ruff studied the assemblage. Around him stairways led to the upper levels, and – there – a stairwell down. That would be where to go…

She peered into the study, where there were people – they must be Death Eaters – still gathered around a radio, listening and talking softly. The light was dim. Everyone walked around wearing black, making them hard to spot. Likewise, once she took off her cloak, her pink blouse would make her a walking bullseye.

'_It had to be pink. Of course. Thank you, Tisiphone. Priorities. Find the library_. _Find the dungeon. Dungeon first_,' she thought. She made for the stairwell down – but was intercepted when a man came out of a passage. He saw her.

"Is that Miss Gibbs?" he asked. He was short and bald, and one hand constantly stroked the other, which seemed – metallic? And his voice carried – Calliope could have hexed him for it. "It is! It is Miss Gibbs! All dolled up, fresh back from the Ministry. You took your time. Where did you go exactly?"

"I Apparated with my cousin and she commanded the location," she answered shortly, crossing her arms. But people had come out of the study and were looking at her, starting to ask after the trial they'd heard on the radio.

This was not working. Calliope's ideal plan had been, '_In and out like a shadow_,' and if it needed more detail: '_Like a shadow in the night_.' She tugged slightly at the medallion of the High Priestess.

"Is that really Miss Gibbs?" someone asked. "I'd heard you was a bit more –" he reached for her chest and she recoiled. "_Don't _touch me." She straightened up. "Pardon me, but I have my own business to attend to."

"Oh, but there's someone here who's been waiting to see you!" began the fat, metal-handed man.

"Who, Turpin Rowle?" she asked impatiently.

Then a woman's voice said, "No."

Calliope stopped.

And the metal-handed man said, "Madame Lestrange, in fact."

Deep breath. Perfect calm. She turned around. On the stairwell, coming down, was Bellatrix Lestrange herself. Calliope knew the face, because she was so like her sister Andromeda – so familiar from the wanted posters. She was staring at her, with frank and open interest.

"Yes, Tisiphone," Bellatrix said. "Do let me talk to you." She descended the stairs and moved towards Calliope. Somehow, that simple action carried the entire energy of the assembly with her. Was it because she was, without question, the highest-ranked Death Eater? Calliope wondered. Or was it something more erotic, as the breathtaking robes and corset seemed to suggest?

'_I am going to stop this train of thought right here_,' Calliope thought as Bellatrix stepped in front of her, black eyes sharp as flint. "Tisiphone?" she asked.

'_Occlumency_.' Calliope thought, and clammed her mind up like a shell. '_I have no emotional association here at all_.'

"Yes, milady?" She gave a deep curtsy. Never can be too formal…

"Good to see you found your way back, my little Fury. What took you so long?" Into Calliope's pause she added, "You were last seen Disapparating with your cousin in hot pursuit. What followed?"

"She tackled me. We Disapparated together. We fought. I… killed her."

"Really? Well-done." Bellatrix lifted her eyebrows. The small man with the metal hand trotted off downstairs – now Calliope wished she could follow him, but Bellatrix was talking to her again. "The trial was interrupted today."

"Indeed it was."

"Why didn't you make sure you knew _exactly_ where your cousin and the Muggle were, before you acted? Why did you leave them to be a threat?"

"It was Circe and Proteus. They wanted to move fast. And the trial date couldn't be changed either."

"Hmph. I can't blame them for eagerness. And now, we won't have to worry about that Muggle at all, any more."

"Good to know." _'Oh god, please let Benny be right, please let Mark be alive, please please please…_' "But why do you say that?"

"Haven't you _heard_?" Bellatrix's eyes widened as if she was sharing a juicy piece of gossip. "The Dark Lord wants to meet the Mudbuck."

'_Calm, Calliope, stay calm, you are the picture of unconcern_.' "Impressive, for a Muggle. And what does the Dark Lord want?"

From downstairs there came a short scream, muffled by stone, cut off suddenly.

"He's just fair curious." Bellatrix smiled. "I'm _very much_ looking forward to that meeting, aren't you?"

"I'll be there with bells on."

"Good, good – of course I'll save you a seat, right by me." Abruptly, "Why are you still wearing the face of that dunglicker?"

Calliope swallowed, and shrugged. "I took an extra dose of potion." She held out the empty flask she'd taken from Tisiphone. "More than I should have, maybe. Figured it was better to keep looking like this a while longer, rather than… less… you know."

Bellatrix Lestrange, the murderer, torturer, nightmare incarnate, was narrowing her eyes. "Ah. And why not take an antidote?"

"Unless Circe had some brewed up around here…?" '_Oh god please don't let her have planned that far ahead_,' she thought, the idea stabbing her in the stomach.

"I don't think so... Check the laboratory," Bellatrix commanded. Someone ran off to do her bidding. She took out a knife, curved like a smile. Calliope didn't break her eye contact with Bellatrix, but she saw its gleam.

"It's a good thing that your cousin isn't here. You know what I'd do if she _were _here?"

"Oh," _'What would Tess say_?' "You would put her in her place. I bet."

"Absolutely." Bellatrix's smile was curved like the knife. "I'd take that girl, and I would take some mud – good, thick, foul stuff – and I would stuff it in that slut's mouth, and stuff, and stuff, until she swallowed."

Her lips were red, and Calliope could feel her breath. She swallowed. "That's nasty." She tried to make it sound like a compliment.

"I mean, why not, right?" The Death Eater looked around to the others for approval. "I bet that when her Mudbuck comes, mud is what he tastes like. So she must like it, don't you think?"

Calliope nodded.

"That would be to start." Bellatrix toyed with the knife. "I think that later, then…" she made the knife dance along Calliope's waist, a swift tickle of silver, "I would _cut_ her open, and look inside her. Play doctor! You know what I'd look for?"

She just shook her head.

"For any filthy mud-babies that might be lurking inside her. She may need a few abortions courtesy of that Mudbuck, don't you agree?"

"You are a sick and twisted woman!"

Silence, thorough and complete.

Somehow Calliope managed to laugh; it was horrid awkward laughter, but she could talk through it, make something up. "_Honestly_! My cousin is the most frigid prude that you ever saw. I doubt she's ever gotten a screw in her life, let alone with that Muggle. I mean, come on, she probably wears a chastity belt."

"I see." Bellatrix wore a rather confused expression, but she looked at least partially amused. "Well, too bad for her. In your case, we've also got the reverend. He's in the dungeons."

Calliope was taken aback until she remembered Tess' words: "_Circe promised she'd cook something up to help Jan… give him his mind back, clean his blood of the Muggle taint, whatever had to be done_."

"Good, excellent. He's unhurt, I hope." ('_With an attitude like that you will inspire terror in the multitudes._')

"I wouldn't promise _that_. From what I was told, he's still raving. But he's been restrained, he won't hurt himself." She leaned closer to Calliope and whispered in her ear, "And of course, there are restraints that _you_ can put on him, if you like."

Calliope nodded, as if she was contemplating the suggestion, she would definitely use that for later, thanks for the tip. She whispered, "I'd like to see him." She cleared her throat. "I'd like to see him. And the Muggle."

"As you wish, my little Fury."

Calliope did a curtsy – good manners were never a bad idea. "Thank you for your time, milady."

Bellatrix smiled, and walked away. Calliope did _not_ heave a sigh of relief, because things had only just begun.

"Goyle! Show Miss Gibbs to the dungeons. And Crabbe, is there any of Goshawk's potions in the laboratory? No? Crying shame. You'd better wear off that Potion quite quick, dearie!" she called to "Tisiphone." "Because I wasn't kidding, when I talked about your cousin."

Calliope did not even respond. A large man with grey hair and dull little eyes set into his head approached her. "So you wanna see the dungeons, Tisiphone?"

"Yes, I do, and I don't want any small-talk." She snapped. Yes. Be angry. Tisiphone would be angry. Don't be scared of Bellatrix. Be _angry_ at her (now that she's walked away and is no longer twitching her knife at your stomach). Be angry at everyone.

Goyle scowled. "As you wish, _my lady_."

He didn't talk for the rest of the walk to the dungeons, though out of sullenness or dullness Calliope didn't know and didn't care.

"I hope that the Muggle is here, too," she said sharply. "I want to interrogate – taunt him." Where was a thesaurus at a time like this?

"Oh yes," Goyle answered. "He's here. Him and –"

"_OH!_" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"Oh… nothing… I thought I saw… a rat…" Calliope had _just_ realized what Bellatrix had meant about the mud.

"There ain't no rats around here," Goyle answered, confused, "Except for Wormtail, naturally. Anyway, that Muggle and yer uncle, Mr. Ollivander, they're both here. All locked up with the loony priest."

He turned around and grinned at her as he unlocked the door. "Helluva family reunion, eh?"

"I wish to speak to him alone." _'Yes, be angry at Mark. He was an idiot, you deserve to be angry at him_.'

"Hey, Muggle pig!" Goyle yelled into the darkness. "Here's a lady caller – the Fury, ye heard of her? In ye go," he said to Calliope, giving her a bodily shove inside, and closing the door behind her.

Closing the door, closing out all light.

She panicked momentarily, before she remembered, '_Wait, I have my wand again_.' She took it out. "_Lumos!_"

The dungeon was wide and low-ceilinged, and someone – _Mark_ was there, Mark was alive, standing up, with one hand still on the wall of the cell.

"Mark," she whispered. She stepped towards him, reaching out her hand, before the wand light fell on him more brightly, and she saw that there was a bright red wound on his temple, and dried blood had collected around his eye and chin. And he was glaring at her, with sheer, undisguised hatred.

She stopped. He said, in a low voice, "So. You came along to see what they did to me." He gestured to himself. ('_What happened to his shirt?_') "Are you happy?"

It was just like that illusion – she tightened her grip on her wand – no, this was real. "Mark, it's me, Calliope – I'm here to…"

But her words died when she saw the cruel smile on his face. "Do you really expect me to believe that?" He was walking towards her, making her back up. "You _murderer_. You killed her, I swear I'll _kill_ you, I don't care if you're a witch—"

Someone else in the darkness was calling, "Don't you dare hurt her! Mr. Printzen, I am warning you!"

"_Stop it_." She stood her ground. "Mark, it's me, you _know _me, look at me." She took his face in one hand. "Look – at – me."

He looked up into her eyes, and some of his hatred quailed. "Prove it."

The black cord hung heavy around his neck. She reached around her own neck, and pulled out her cord, her eyes not leaving his face. The medallion dangled between their faces. "Julietta Fell gave this to me. The High Priestess – and you got the Hanged Man, please, Mark, it's me."

"_Oh_." He stepped back, his face white with shock.

"Listen, it was Tisiphone who was impersonating me the whole time. She took Polyjuice and they think that _I'm_ her, Mark, don't look like that, it's all right."

"I thought you were – " his voice was only a whisper, before he stepped forward and hugged her, tightly, "dead."

She was at a loss for words. Touching his bare skin was doing funny things to her heart. '_Don't think about that_,' she thought automatically, but she still murmured, "I thought they made you forget me."

He drew away from her. "They told me she killed you. Oh, my God…"

Then a voice from the darkness said, "Pardon me, but is that Calliope or Tess?"

Calliope turned. Could it be –? "_Lumos Maxima!_"

The wand's light now illuminated the entire chamber easily. And there _he_ was, sitting in the corner, holding a piece of paper for a wand, and shielding his eyes against the light.

She ran to him, hugged him, tightly. "Uncle, I forgot about staying with you, I only just remembered today, it's been the most insane day, but Uncle, things will be different this time, because I _swear_ I'm going to get you out of here, I _will_!"

"Don't worry about promises right now," he said gently. "I'm glad to see you again, and you have your wand back, I see."

"Yes." She held it out. "I won it from Tisiphone, but Uncle, I'm glad you taught me wandless magic, it's come in _so_ useful. So thank you."

"Why do you call her Tisiphone now?"

Her smile vanished. Mark had approached to join them, though he kept at a distance. "You can come closer," she said to him. To her uncle she replied, "She betrayed us to the Death Eaters. Tisiphone is how Bellatrix Lestrange calls her; let that be her name, then."

"What exactly happened?" Mark asked. "In brief."

"In brief, I think she had a second mental breakdown. It started as revenge, revenge on you and Andrew. It's a load of complicated poison, but because you were involved with me, and Andrew and Hector became involved with each other, and it was all corrupting our family, she hated that."

(If Mr. Ollivander wondered why Hector and this Andrew fellow were 'involved,' he gave no sign, and Calliope was grateful because that would have been a tad awkward.)

"And then you donated your blood to Januarius Fell, and drove him mad, and she blamed you for that, too. But Circe Goshawk promised she could fix Mr. Fell up, somehow. And that, and revenge, was enough for Tisiphone to participate in the scheme: she impersonated me with Polyjuice, and Proteus impersonated you, and –"

"Circe was a backup you," Mark supplied.

"… Yes, I suppose, and Linus was already under Imperius."

"He _was_?"

"Yes. Turpentine cast Imperius on him. A while ago."

"I knew it…" Mr. Ollivander muttered.

"What happened after the Ministry? I told your uncle everything up to that point."

"She Apparated to Hollywyck, and I followed her. Her potion wore off, and we fought. I won. Didn't kill her. I fell asleep and… um… had a weird dream that told me how I could find you. Don't look like that."

Both of the men were giving her funny looks.

"I swear it made sense then. Anyway, I took a few things from her, enough to pass as her. And I tried to pull together a plan, and came here. No idea what's happened to Linus and the others."

"Did you just _leave_ her there?" Uncle asked.

"No! Oh, no. She was Stunned, I tied her into a bed so she wouldn't be able to move when she wakes up. And there's a guard. She will be fine, but I want the law to find her. I've done enough, I think."

Mr. Ollivander stared. "Little Tess… It cannot be." He shook his head. "I'll think about it later. Perhaps someone was mistaken."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Uncle," Calliope said, sighing. "Right now we're focusing on getting you two out of here. The Dark Lord…" She fell silent. She heard another voice, a whisper, but growing louder now in the silence:

"Tess? Tess, is that you?"

"Make that the three of you," she muttered. "Is that who I think it is?"

"It's Januarius Fell, a reverend, and a friend of Tess," Mr. Ollivander replied. "He is quite mad. He's recently fallen into a depression."

"He's here because of Tisiphone – they'll probably kill him now that she's… well, we can't have that. Is he dangerous?"

"He can't cast any magic, but I've tried to talk to him and he's unresponsive," said her uncle.

She nodded. "I'll try, anyway. If he's difficult then he may give us all away."

"Wait – " Mark interrupted. "We're definitely bringing him along, then?"

"Yes, are you objecting?"

"No, but I'm taking into consideration the chance that he may attempt suicide again after we save his life."

"I'll risk it." She approached the minister carefully, her wand slightly lowered. "Januarius Fell? Can you hear me?"

He turned his face away, then looked at her from the corner of his eye. "It's not Tess."

"No. I am not Tisiphone. I am Calliope. But you can trust me. You see?" Again, she held out the medallion. "Julietta gave this to me. Do you see it?"

He turned slightly towards her. "Y… yes, I do."

"What is it?"

"It's the High Priestess. Second enigma. Secrets, mysteries, initiation."

"Yes. Good. That means I'm a friend. Now, do you know where you are?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not Hell. Not Limbo."

"That's right. And you're not even dead."

"But in prison."

"Close enough. Januarius, I'm going to help you escape, but I need your complete cooperation, do you understand? _Do_ you understand?"

He remained stubbornly silent, and Calliope was aware of Mark coming up behind her. She whispered, "Don't say a word…"

"I don't want to leave," Januarius said at last, in a forceful rush.

"Why not?"

"I want to die."

'_Of course. I not only have to be a spy and impersonate my psychotic cousin and play the dashing heroine, now I have to be a psychologist too._' "Why do you want to die, Januarius? The world is beautiful, your sister is alive and safe, there's so much to live for."

"My debt."

"What debt?" she asked, event though she knew the answer.

"The life-debt that I owe… to that intractable _Muggle_ standing over your shoulder." He opened his eyes and turned his head the other way, glaring sidelong now at Mark, but still talking to Calliope. "How am I supposed to pay back a life-debt to a Muggle? Muggles have no honor. I didn't want the debt; I'm incomplete, corroded, corrupted, until it's paid off, but I have no way to pay it…"

"Listen," Mark cut in, loudly – Calliope shushed him, and he lowered his tone but still spoke fiercely, "You keep talking about how you can't pay me back, the debt's unpayable, I'm telling you, it's _not_. Right in front of you is the way to pay me back, but you're so caught up in your own angst you don't even see it. Do you hear me, Januarius Fell?"

The reverend clenched his eyes shut. "Yes, I hear you."

"If you help Calliope, her uncle, and me to escape, your debt is quit, do you hear? I will consider it to be entirely repaid, and you will owe me _nothing_ any more. Okay? Do we have a deal?"

Januarius opened his eyes, and looked Mark in the face. "You… you would accept those terms?"

"I'm _offering _them, yes, I would accept."

"I accept them as well," Calliope volunteered.

"Sounds quite reasonable," Mr. Ollivander added. "I'm sure anyone else would agree."

"Then, yes," Januarius said, straightening up. "We have a deal."

As Mark and Januarius shook hands, Calliope stood up. "Januarius, do you have your wand?"

He shook his head. "Destroyed. Death Eaters."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." '_So I'm the only one here with a wand. All right_.' "By the way, Uncle, I think this should go to you." She drew out the medallion of the Hermit and gave it to him. "Can you see what it is?"

He studied it. "It appears to be the enigma of the Hermit. Very nicely rendered. Thank you. But what is it for?"

"Just… just in case. Anyway, we have to move as quickly as we possibly can, because Voldemort wants to meet Mark, and I –"

Januarius winced as if he'd been hit. Mr. Ollivander stared at his niece. "You said his name!"

"Yes."

"Huh." Mark interrupted, "So… Voldemort. Meeting me. That's not good, what is your plan then?"

She took in a deep breath. "Well," she said, "This is the improvisational part."

"The 'fun' part."

"Exactly! Great way to look at it. First…" she checked her wristwatch, "I've got to leave here soon and go to the gallery to find… some things… and to get a more concrete idea of the grounds. I'll come back here –"

"Under what pretense?" Mr. Ollivander asked.

"That's where _you_ come in…" And she continued to explain the plan, explain the precautions she'd taken, and the messages she'd sent, and the route (though very vague and uncertain) that they were going to take. And when she was finished,

Januarius sighed, "You're mad,"

Mark said, "I don't think I understand it, but it sounds cool and I trust you,"

And Mr. Ollivander said admiringly, "Calliope, you are braver than your mother."

"Heh, heh," she laughed nervously, "I'm not brave at all, I'm just not letting myself think about what I'm doing."

ooo

Part one of the plan was a complex simplification.

Calliope was, at that moment, disguised as Tisiphone, who was disguised as Calliope.

She would drop the Calliope-disguise by disguising herself as her cousin, and try not to think about it too hard.

People had often said that Tisiphone and Calliope looked alike, and for once she was glad of that. Bone structure, complexion and eyes… that counted for a lot. But there was yet more to be done.

She didn't trust herself with the Illusion Charms without a mirror, so her Uncle applied them with her wand.

"There…" he muttered, after a time, lowering the linden wand. "That's done…"

"Is it enough?" she asked.

"I'm trying to figure that out myself." He frowned. "I'm sorry, but this is very strange, to try and shift my two nieces' faces. It doesn't look quite right yet…"

"No, it doesn't," said Januarius, louder than necessary. Over their shushes, he strode to Calliope. "If you're trying to look like Tess, you have to realize that her brows are like _this_ –" and he covered her forehead with his hands. She felt his magic settling, a rather unsteady effect, but with strength behind it. "And her nose looks like _this_ –" he tapped the bridge with his fingers, "and her hands are altogether different." He took her hands and turned them over in his own, removing the calluses of bowstring and violin and replacing them with Tisiphone's bonier hands.

"Are you done yet?" this from Mark, who looked distinctly annoyed.

"It's a very good likeness," Uncle admitted.

"Almost." Januarius pressed her cheekbones with his thumbs, but more gently this time, as if he was sculpting. "There." And the question occurred to Calliope, surprising: Was he in love with Tisiphone?

"It's finished," her uncle said with a tone of awe. "You're a perfect likeness."

"Good," she said. "I'll be back soon. Thank you, Januarius, but stay quiet."

Before she left, she used her wand to set alight the torches in their brackets. At least they wouldn't be in darkness.

She closed the door behind her. Took a deep breath. Dark and claustrophobic as the prison had been, there wasn't the deception.

And – she looked down. Though she hadn't wanted to mention it in front of any of the men, she was considerably less buxom than her cousin, and didn't know any spells to alter that.

'_If only I had been more of a shallow, image-conscious teenager_,' she thought ruefully.

Well, no time to lose, so she let it go, resolving that if anyone so much as stared, she would slap and then hex them for lechery. '_Yes. Very in-character_.'

_Her_ debt to settle, first.

She was cold and haughty when she asked for directions to the library, and so escaped questioning. She almost managed to convince herself she was not afraid, and she managed not to start the first time she saw a mirror.

As Calliope moved down the passageway and passed Mr. Goyle – thanks heavens he didn't recognize her – she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and there was nothing. Only a painting, a portrait of a man with a white beard and ruff beside a table with quills and –

Wait a minute.

The man fit awkwardly into the frame, and was clearly trying to squeeze between the table in the foreground and the curtain in the background. The original, she realized, was a still life. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you following me?" she whispered.

"Madam, can't a painting take a stroll in his own house as he pleases?" came the gruff, but not unfriendly, reply. "Why be so alarmed? I'm only a humble, harmless painting."

Calliope glared at him sidelong. '_He knows. He knows I don't belong here_.'

"Why do you look different from when you entered the cellar?"

"You mean the dungeon?"

He waved an impatient hand. "Pish-tosh! I built this house with a big hearty cellar for wine and cheese and meats, and what do my descendants do? They take the food out and put in prisoners and call it a 'dungeon!' Fine, if you insist, it's a dungeon. And you looked different coming out of it, but you didn't change your garb… unless there's another young lady in there that I missed."

"No, no, I'm the same person, despite how I look."

"I see. You don't want to share. Fair enough. I can tell, you're not of the strange folk who come and go, flashing their bodkins. No, I won't tell anyone – but you've piqued my curiosity, if I may be frank."

"Who are you?"

"Melanthios Matin, master of Bindweed Hall, alive 1353-1470, at your service." He bowed.

"So you're familiar here…"

"Know every stone on the property."

"And every painting?"

"Naturally."

"You can help me," she said quickly, but softly. "I'm looking for a painting. A portrait, a recent addition – it has a teenage girl and two little children, a baby and a toddler. And it's frozen…"

He nodded and gestured excitedly. "I know it! The very one! I knew someone would repair it some day!"

"Can you take me to it? At once?"

"Of course! But –" as he led her, moving from painting to painting and checking to see that she was caught up, he kept talking, "why did you look for it in the cellar? Or dungeon?"

"I wanted first to talk to the people in the dungeon, the prisoners –"

"Blackguards!" he cried, with such force that he upset the table where three wizards were playing cards. "Sorry, gentlemen, sorry, sorry…"

"You don't like the prisoners?" she asked.

"Jove, no! Prisoners? In my house? Captors and torturers feasting at my tables? It makes my colors run cold – figure of speech, you understand."

"I do!" Calliope felt an idea bloom. "My lord Matin, what if we struck a deal?"

Matin agreed to the deal, and explained about the house and its history as she stalked through the library. The library was almost entirely dark – but she'd gone in by a secondary door. In the center a few lamps were lit, and Calliope could hear voices. A soirée seemed to be in progress. She passed books of astrology – here was morals, ethics, philosophy, social philosophy –

"There it is!" Matin said in a stage whisper.

Calliope peered forward, squinting – and realized she could see the painting. There was a frame, a part of an oak frame broken off – just on the wall that she was moving along.

"Do you see it?" said Melanthios. "Do you see it ahead?"

She did, and in a few strides she was standing in front of the painting. Dizziness gripped her, but it was almost a rapture, to feel the sensation of spinning. She would soon be free. She stared at the canvas. Benedicte watched over little Linus and little Calliope playing on the couch, a perfect scene made of strokes of light and dark – forever.

She reached out and touched Benedicte's forehead.

Melanthios blanched. "What are you doing? The oils in your hand will –"

Benny in the painting blinked, shook her head and straightened up. "Whoa! What happened? What did I miss?" Linus and Calliope in the painting woke up.

"All right," Calliope took out her bag, and tapped the back of the painting. "I'm going to take you away now – I'll take you home, but first you have to be in the dark for a while. All right?" When Benedicte and Linus assented, she tapped the frame with her wand, took it from the wall, and packed it into her small bag.

"Well," she said, sighing with relief, "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Matin."

She looked up, and was surprised to see him quite crestfallen in _Intermittent Still Life with Exploding Snap Cards. _He gave a sigh. "Of course, anything to maintain harmony."

"What is the matter?"

He shrugged. "I – it's a silly thought, but the girl and the children seemed so pleasant, I thought that if they should wake up, we could be – they would make a good addition to a household."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's nothing – " he shrugged, and gave a little smiled. "The life of a painting. Real life thunders on, past us the memories, and there's nothing we can do to change it. They already have a household, I know. Go and return them to it."

She nodded. "Thank you. Don't tell anyone –"

He nodded, putting a finger to his mouth. "Now. Don't thank me until I've told you about…" he looked around. "Can you see anyone? There's a painting down the hall of Mont St. Michel, we'd be safer there. Come on."

Standing in the foreground of an elegant landscape in France, the one-time Master of Bindweed Hall explained to her the secret passage out onto the grounds from the basement, and the ancient waterway that connected the well to the River Wharfe. And he made sure that she was only doing this in order to take off some of the tarnish that his family house had acquired – the tarnish of holding innocents captive and hosting madmen.

Calliope promised him to keep the family secrets, and redeem Bindweed Hall at least a little. In return, Melanthios Matin promised not to tell anyone else about her.

With all that said, he bowed and left, returning to his portrait in the entrance hall.

Calliope lost no time. '_I have to return to the dungeons_,' she thought, '_And I'll get Uncle and Mark and Januarius out of there and we'll be all right_.' She felt clearheaded, capable. She hadn't been able to think this clearly in months. Benedicte's shadow was gone. And she had her wand. Slowly, more and more possibilities occurred to her. She was a _witch_! With her magic and her wand she could accomplish anything…

Then she turned a corner and heard people talking. She remembered that this part of the library had been more open, big enough for a few people to stand around and talk. She peered through the shelves: a small party was in progress. And there was a tall man speaking with an arrogant grace, boasting.

"Turpentine," she whispered. He went on,

"It ended badly. I'll be the first to admit. But we've done the damage. And the shock and confusing ending will ultimately only help. The judge, the jury, the audience across England – all of them are now convinced that it's possible for Muggles to steal magic. That any Muggle-born wizard they've known for years could simply be a thief. _That_ idea, my friends, is going to change everything. _That_ little crack is soon going to widen into a chasm."

"I'll drink to that," someone else said. There was a clink of glasses.

"To Presumption," Turpentine said in a laughing voice.

"To Presumption," they echoed, chortling and chuckling. There was a pause, wherein presumably drinks were consumed.

"But Turpentine," asked another voice, an older woman's voice, "how did you know for sure that the Mudbuck would take the bait?"

There was Turpentine's laugh. "I was hoping you'd ask. It was classic psychology at work. Well, I've met the Muggle a few times before. The very first time we met, I encountered him alone, at first, and of course I overpowered him. But soon that wretched Ollivander girl interrupted. And she tricked me, that minx. She coaxed me into making an exchange – her for the Muggle. I chose her –"

"_Why_?" Asked someone else.

"Because, Yaxley, I needed her for my experiment! I've only explained it a dozen times."

"Hey, all's well that ends well," a man's voice put in, calmingly. "Turpentine, go on."

"Thank you – anyway, I remembered that encounter. I remembered what I knew of him – he has some souped-up code of honor that he must abide by, and of course it's clear as day he's besotted with that witch. So I set it up like an echo of our first meeting. A hostage exchange situation. Last time, he'd been traded for his darling Calliope – and I knew how much he'd regretted that. Oh, I knew. This time, he got to make the choice himself. The most melodramatic sacrifice possible – _and_ a chance to atone for his greatest failure? Easy money."

Calliope found her hand was already on her wand. She thought, '_Well that explains that, now that we've had our nice little exposition hour over, we are _leaving now.'

And she tried to retrace her steps, but by the time she wound her way through the stacks and found the right door –

"Tisiphone? Is that you?"

She'd walked into sight. She turned. "Oh. Hello."

"Whatever _are_ you doing here?" The speaker was an older woman, who had graying hair drawn up. Probably the mistress of the house, just judging from how she stood in the library among the guests.

"Oh, just looking for… books. On economics," she added. "And I found the books, so I will just be going, now…"

"But Tess, we must have a drink!" Turpentine waved her into the circle. "Thorfinn! A glass." A wineglass was shoved into her hand.

"To Tisiphone," Turpentine raised his glass. "To her impeccable performance."

In the name of irony, she raised her glass, and took a drink with the rest – it was a savory and full red, with a tart finish. Keeping her face impassive – she didn't dare smile – she began to move towards the exit again. "Thank you, but I really must be going now…"

"Oh, come now, Tess, I'm sure that you want to tell all of your dramatic part in the tale!" Turpentine took her by the shoulder ('_Don't wince, or recoil, or grimace_') and drew her into the little circle. "She was quite the star of the day, weren't you, Tess?"

"Yes, you all heard me on the Wireless, I'm sure," she said delicately.

"It's been rather an exciting day, hasn't it?" asked someone.

"Yes, rather. I would like to just go home… and lie down…" she took another drink of wine, but a small one, and quietly shrugged off Turpentine's hand.

"What, no question and answer session?" Turpentine laughed. "I thought you'd want to boast to the world…"

"Yes, well, I'm more tired than I thought I would be."

"Are you sure?"

An idea took root – a curiosity. Her natural Ravenclaw instincts prompted her, and she took another tiny sip. Slowly, "Actually, _I_ have a question, for you, Turpentine."

"Oh?"

"You were supposed to never use Unforgivable Curses. But my cousin? You had him under Imperius for – how long? Why did you break that rule of yours? And when?"

Turpentine's face lost its smile, and she could see that he wanted very much to sneer or scowl – but he was almost as good at controlling his face as she was. "Well, since you asked, Tisiphone…" he took a drink, "It was an impulse decision. Try not to die of shock," he added to the assembly, who tittered good-naturedly, "It was just a day after Calliope was released from St. Mungo's. Linus Ollivander, for some pointless reason, was visiting the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Office. And he and I spoke… and he ended by saying that he wasn't afraid of me. Of me! That arrogant, pompous _chit_ – so I Imperiused him then and there. He said I had no more control over him. But," he chortled, "he was the one sending owls to me daily, at least – telling me of everything that went on in his life, your life – all I had to do was think of it, and he would tell me. That's how we were able to plan all this, with me controlling the strings of one particular puppet."

"And in the Black Otter, you made him believe the memories you fed him just like _that_. How clever." She took another drink.

"Oh, yes. It was quite a thrill. I think more people should be using the Unforgivables like that. It's all about creative application of power. _You_ didn't need any Unforgivables, though, did you Tess?"

Calliope tilted her glass, smiling tightly. That had been her last hope regarding her cousin. "No. I guess I didn't."

He smiled down at her, and his grip tightened on her shoulder. She wanted desperately to shove him off and run away, but would Tess do that? Or would she tolerate his – advances? Calliope settled for mere squirming, mentally applying various methods of torture to Turpentine.

"She was the one who approached me, you know," he said to the assembled crowd. "She said that her brother had told me about my attempt to blackmail them. Seems so long ago! And she wanted to try and make me – what was it that you said?"

"I honestly don't remember."

"I think I do; 'See reason before I made the biggest mistake of my life.'" He laughed. "The nerve of her! She actually tried to threaten me. But I took it in stride. I saw potential in her. And I told her so –" he said in a low voice to Calliope, "and you didn't like the idea very much at first, did you?" he turned to smile at her but she took another sip so she wouldn't make eye contact. "And I sent a little birdie named Circe to coax her along the way. And look where that road has led us, now!" He slapped her on the back. "One of us."

Calliope nodded, smiled, and took a tiny sip of wine. "Yes, very good, very good. Now, this has been lovely, but I really must be going. I'll stop by some other time."

Calliope closed her ears to the words of the other Death Eaters, and only gave Turpentine the barest of nods to acknowledge him. Then, finally, she left the library.

Part two of the plan, commence, now.

She passed by the dungeons and heard complaining inside. A guard approached her. "Miss Gibbs, your uncle is putting up a right ruckus. He wants to talk to you."

"What about?" she asked coolly.

"What you done to your cousin. He says he wants to teach you a lesson."

She smirked. "Oh, I'm sure he does. Fine, I'll humor him."

Thus she entered into the dungeons with the full blessing of the guards, and the door was shut tight behind her. Now to just find –

Something was wrong. The two younger men were standing awkwardly by Uncle. He was sitting on the ground, his face to the wall, hunched over – was he crying? She touched his shoulder. He turned to her, wiping away tears. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry – no, no injury, I'm fine. I just – _remembered_ her, as clearly as if she were here and talking to me. Then I remembered her death, all at once, the grief was so fresh –"

"You mean…" she started.

"Yes! Benedicte! Calliope, you wonderful girl, you've broken the curse!"

He hugged her, which he had done rarely even before his capture. She hugged him back.

Mark, uncertain, congratulated her. But when Calliope looked at him, she almost didn't hear his words for her heart beating so hard, excitement and happiness and fluster and confusion and affection that _begged_ to be expressed all blossoming within her, without pause. She couldn't meet his eyes, and wished more than anything that her hair was loose so she could hide behind it.

She was in love. The love that had been forgotten, buried, sublimated for months was now demanding her full and complete attention.

'_Good god,_' she thought, '_if this was how Mark felt whenever he saw me for the last three months, how did he survive without _saying_ something_?'

Mark said, "Um…"

She looked up. The three men were staring at her oddly.

"Are you okay?" he finished asking.

"Fine! Um… give me a minute."

Deep breath, facing the wall. She was the commander, the member of the Order of the Phoenix. And besides, she couldn't try any romancing in front of her uncle and Januarius. '_When this is all over_,' she thought, '_I will tell Mark that I love him and – why be so shy? – we'll think about love when this is over._'

She turned back. "I think I know how to get out of here… I'll, I'll just do that, shall I?"

She heard Januarius ask Mark, "Is she always like that? Seems a bit off, if you ask me."

Following Matin's instructions, she went to the eastern corner and whispered the words "_Mai Lasciare_" as she waved her wand. The passage opened: a crude set of stairs revealed themselves. They led into the garden and the three men followed her into the open air. All that Uncle took from the cell was the heavy cloak that the Death Eaters had given him for a blanket, and he put it on as they stepped outside.

The mists were heavy, and the air smelled of the countryside. They walked in single file, following Calliope's wandlight.

"We are looking for a well," she whispered to them.

"I want a wand," Januarius grumbled.

"I dealt without a wand for two whole months, you can deal without one for a few hours," Calliope whispered back.

"But I can't do _magic!_" he complained, louder.

"Be quiet!" Mark hissed.

"But I need to protect myself!" And now his voice was really too loud. Mark clamped a hand over his mouth, and whispered fiercely, "You promised that you would help us escape, and being loud enough to carry across the garden is _not helping_."

Someone touched Calliope's shoulder. She turned – it was her Uncle. "Guide the light over there," he pointed. "I have an idea.

"I've been watching this tree for the last few weeks out the window," he explained. "If you can help me…"

He led her to a silver birch, which stood out when hit by the light of the wand. It was bare of leaves, but healthy and strong. Mr. Ollivander approached the tree almost reverently and ran his fingers along the bark and lower branches, as if looking for something.

Calliope looked from the tree to Januarius, who was being half-dragged along by Mark. "Uncle… are you really thinking…"

"Yes, I am," he answered. "Use your wand to break off – this branch, right here, if you would be so kind."

She used a Severing Charm to break off the branch – a straight but supple line, which she could tell at once would make a good wand.

"Very good, very good," her Uncle muttered as he took it in his hands. He muttered a few quick spells of preparation, of readiness, of channeling, pacing away into the mist. When he reappeared in the circle of light, he held it out to Januarius.

"Here," he said.

Januarius stared at it, but Mark asked, "Did you just make a wand?"

"I made the beginnings of a wand," Uncle answered. "More spells, a core, preparations – and of course, should it choose him – and I know it's not perfect," he went on as if to himself, "but it has the life of the tree still within it. Not the same magic as a finished wand, but it may work."

Januarius pushed Mark away, and reached out a trembling hand. He took the branch, and muttered, "It chooses me. I know it."

"Then, it will do for little magics… if not exerted. Understand?"

"Yes. Thank you."

As Januarius said "_Lumos_," and made a tiny light against the darkness, Calliope said, "Good, detour over?"

"I think so," Mark answered. "Man, if only we could make these trees into Ents – we'd have perfect allies."

"Ents?" Uncle asked.

"It's a Muggle… thing…" Calliope mumbled.

They resumed the hunt for the well, Calliope's light leading the way. Their feet sunk into the mud as they passed the herb garden, still growing strong even now. Then she spotted a shape ahead in the darkness, a low shape between three trees. With a gasp, she gripped Uncle's sleeve and ran towards it. It was the well, but it had a heavy cover over its top. Shriveled tendrils of morning glory clung to it, and it was cold to the touch.

But Calliope was a witch, and she had a wand. She carefully began to levitate the top off of the well.

"Remind me," she said to no one in particular, "someone has to replace this when we leave…"

A door opened, and shut.

"Tisiphone?"

The cover fell back onto the well with a _slam_ that echoed throughout the garden.

"_Nox!_" Calliope said with the same force as if it had been a swearword. Her light went out at once. "Down, men, down, _down!_"

"Tisiphone," came the call again, "are you out here?"

Turpentine.

"What do we do now?" Mark asked.

After a too-long pause, Calliope said, "I don't know…" at the same time that Turpentine called, "I _know_ you're here, Tisiphone. Come out and talk to me. Now. Or I shall come and find you."

She squinted in the darkness. "Is he alone, or is someone with him – I can't tell –"

"He'll be alone," Mark answered.

"How do you know?" she turned to him.

"After what Bellatrix Lestrange said, he wants to prove himself. He's alone."

She glanced out towards the dim silhouette of Turpentine.

"Tisiphone, I shall start looking…"

"No!" Calliope called out at once. "I'll meet you there."

"What are you doing?" Mark caught her sleeve.

"Just wait a minute!" Calliope called. In an undertone, "I can't just delay, he'll know and he'll come looking and find you –"

"He may find us anyway!" Uncle reminded her.

"And you're looking like yourself again," Mark reminded her.

"I'll fix that. And he won't find you if I hide you –" she looked around. Three trees loomed above the, just visible in the lights from the house.

"Uncle," she asked, squinting, "what trees are here?"

"Tall ones?" Mark offered half-heartedly. (Januarius had returned to praying the rosary.)

Uncle only needed to glance. "Oak, and ash, and thorn. Why?"

"Men, _up_. Each man to a tree."

"_What_?" Uncle protested. "Are you –"

"Mark, you said something about the trees being Ents. Don't protest, I'm going to do something kind of like that."

"Transfigure us _into_ the trees?" Januarius asked, deadpan.

"Are you talking to someone out there?" Turpentine called.

"You must be imagining things!" she called back. And to her infinite relief, she heard the door open again, and another voice – too low to make out the sound – but someone else had come and was talking to Turpentine.

"Maybe he'll go back inside," she muttered. Could it be true?

"No," Uncle said, "he won't give up on finding you. He'll not go inside. What are you thinking of doing?"

She turned back to the men. "This is something that a friend of mine showed me. Take a tree – and I'll Transfigure you –"

"The most dangerous and tricksy branch of magic we studied at Hogwarts –" Januarius cut in, speaking very fast.

"_Hush_," Mark snapped, "If anyone can do it, Calliope can. All right? All right. Now take a tree."

Calliope recalled the mnemonic for the spell that Fleur had taught her – Fleur knew this spell, had used it to rescue Calliope. This was a lucky spell for Calliope – if spells could contain luck.

'_Stop it, Calliope, no past or future, just now, and they need you…_'

Januarius was staring ahead, his back to the hawthorn tree, still clinging to his makeshift half-wand. Uncle lay against the ash tree like it was an old friend, and Mark stood against the oak as though it were the mast of a ship, and he its captain.

"Change me first," Januarius said flatly.

And Calliope was standing in front of him, with her wand out, before she realized what he meant, and she leaned closer to him and whispered, "Look, I know that you want to die, but I promise you, my magic will not hurt you, and don't you start to think that it will. _Arborcon hominus_."

And Januarius seemed to fall into the wood of the thorn tree. The spell had wrapped him up tightly, and it was – not quite as difficult as Calliope had thought. But it was draining – a spell that devoured magic.

She moved on to Uncle. He said nothing, but merely nodded to indicate that he was ready. Soon there was no trace that there was a man there – the ash tree was all that stood.

That left Mark.

Turpentine called her again, but she ignored him.

She stood in front of Mark, her wand out, focusing on the spell – and being more distracted than she would like, by his bare chest, and the way he was looking at her, and this was all going to go wrong, Turpentine would know and find them and – she closed her eyes, she had to focus – focus on –

"Calliope?"

She opened her eyes. Mark was looking at her. He said, low but clear, "I trust you completely."

They stared at each other for an instant. Then she touched him – grazed his shoulder, kissed him – it was magical – and broke off. She took a deep breath.

"_Arborcon hominus_."

And the oak tree pulled Mark into its embrace as he closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her magic.


	30. A Wreath of Basil

**A Wreath of Basil**

A/N: I know it's been a long time, and I apologize. As they say, it never rains but it pours - and I have had a series of computer problems all carefully timed to coincide as evilly as possible with school assignments. But I do believe I'm over the worst of it. This chapter is brought to you by my school library computers - hurrah for libraries!

There are three instances of outside material making an appearance in this chapter. The first is St. Patrick's Rune, as rendered in Madeleine L'Engle's '_A Swiftly Tilting Planet._' The second is from the Disney film '_Tangled_.' The third is a folk tradition that I stole from Sir Terry Pratchett's _'I Shall Wear Midnigh_t.' The story just didn't feel complete without these tie-ins, so please, forgive them.

Enjoy this chapter, and, as always, feel free to leave a review!

ooooo

"_Tisiphone!_"

"I'm coming, I'm coming, for God's sake…"

Turpentine turned. Out of the misty garden, and lifting her skirt delicately above the damp ground, came Tisiphone. She gave him an annoyed look. "What do you want?"

"Oh? I need an ulterior motive to talk to you?" He smiled. "Come, come. Why not take a stroll in a moonlit garden?"

"There's cloud cover and a heavy mist."

"Fortunately –" he waved his wand and conjured up spheres of gentle light, "We are wizards. Please. Let us take a turn."

She visibly bristled at that. "Honestly. I'd rather not."

"No – _let's_." And he took her by the arm, and proceeded to lead her on stroll. Never had the garden of Bindweed Hall seen a stroll more rigid, awkward, or uncomfortable, at least since the Regency period passed away. After some time, when they had turned past the well, and were starting to approach the house, he said, "Let us stop here. Isn't it lovely? Just perfect Halloween weather."

She cleared her throat. "Er… Don't talk to me about the weather, sir. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else."

He stopped and stared at her.

She shrugged. "I mean to say, I'm getting chilly."

"You want to go inside?" he asked.

"Er…" she hesitated.

"Why not? I'm sure Bellatrix will be eager to talk to you – soon, I've heard, we'll have news of Circe and Proteus."

"I don't care," she finally wriggled her arm out of his. "I mean, I am very tired. I would like to be alone."

"But outside? In the cold?"

"It's been a very busy day and I want time to think it over."

"What, think over killing your cousin?"

She flinched. "Why isn't it enough that I've killed my cousin, broken off from my family, and watched the man I love descend into lunacy, but I have to suffer your _interrogations_ as well?" She turned to look at him. His head was tilted slightly to the side, but the lights from the house obscured him to a silhouette.

"Funny… you know, Tisiphone, you remind me of someone."

"Who?"

"Your cousin. Calliope. She became quite dear to me while I kept her, you know… one of those odd, charming woman who don't quite know how charming they are… cold as ice, though… tell me, what were her last words?"

The misty air choked her. She forced herself to be still, and she tried to say, "Her last words… they were…"

"Pray, tell me."

"They were private," she blurted. "She didn't want anyone else to…"

"Look at me, Calliope – I say, _look at me_," he grabbed her shoulder, grabbed her chin, forced her to face him, then he muttered some spell and he pulled the Appearance Charms off of her face and let them snap into nothingness; she was facing Turpentine as she was, and he was staring into her eyes with that intensity she knew so well –

one after the other the memories of the day spilled over her, into him, cello forest voice night Hollywyck love Ministry Tisiphone _she had her wand_

She grabbed it and pointed it at him and thought _'Reducto!_' with all her might –they were blasted feet apart, him getting the worst of it.

But he recovered quickly. "You've got some nerve, coming here, you know – _don't move_."

She fell. She lay immobile and limp, sprawled on the wet grass like a rag doll.

Turpentine walked over to her. She could feel the earth turning, and realized she could speak. Just above a whisper: "What do you want?"

"Nothing, really." He stood over her. "You're very easy to figure out. I know why you came here – to rescue your uncle and Muggle. Tisiphone isn't dead, you're too weak to have killed her. I even worked out how you shaped your Patronus into your sister."

"Clever," it was all she could say. What could she use for a wand?

"Oh, you silly girl, it's far bigger than that. Thanks to your brother I have records of every shade of your sister that you've shown – how after death, your sister lives on in you. I am very interested in that, oh yes – but it will be the Dark Lord who will stop at nothing to understand how Benedicte accomplished that. He will take you apart. He will use any torture necessary – you, your Uncle, your Muggle, what will it matter? All I did to you will be _nothing_ compared to what he will do."

She shut her eyes, half-consciously thinking, '_Benedicte, tell me this won't happen, this won't happen –_'

"Open your eyes. You said earlier, I perform Unforgivable Curses now." He smiled, not a hands' breadth above her face. "And that's true. I've been waiting to try this one for a long, long time." He raised his wand. "_Silencio. Crucio!_"

A hideous spasm wracked her, limb to limb; pain in every single nerve and fiber of her being. He removed the paralyzing curse and laughed as she writhed, her mouth open in a silent scream – everything was agony – the _silence_ – stop it stop it – _stop it_ –

Something else screamed.

Shocked, Turpentine broke the Cruciatus Curse. The scream continued – now more like a suffocated cry, like an animal in distress. It came from the direction of the three trees. Calliope lay on the ground, blood and heart pounding, terror enhancing her senses, rattled to the bone.

"What the hell was _that_?"

Calliope could move, but she was weak, and Turpentine was walking towards the trees, he _must_ not – he would find them –

She remembered a rune her mother had taught her, a poem very like what Jan had recited with his sister, long ago, but a plea where the other was a prayer:

'_With Uncle in this fateful hour, I place all heaven with its power – the sea with its deepness, the rocks with their steepness, _the earth with its starkness–'

Her palms were flat on the wet ground: her magic flowed into the soil and back to her like a wave, giving her the earth's strength, and jerking Turpentine's feet from under him, making him stumble and fall. He turned to see Calliope struggling to get up.

"You –"

"_Petrificus Totalus_." She pointed her linden wand at him. It should have been a full Stunning Spell, that would have been smart, but that would cost more strength than she could spare. He fell facedown onto the grass.

She stood up, dress and hair soaked. "_Sourdefy_," she whispered. The spell rendered him deaf, so he couldn't hear where she went as she ran through the wet grass. She looked for the trees she'd enchanted, but the mists were growing, and she was confused – she spotted three that looked right, then someone called her name.

She turned; she could just make out Uncle – in the flesh – in the luxuriant herb garden. She hurried towards him.

"Uncle? What happened to the spell?"

"It broke," he said shortly. "What happened to _you_?"

"Turpentine cast Crucio on me."

"Ah," he said, as if that explained everything.

"What _happened_?"

"When he did that, the spell on the three of us broke… abruptly."

"And why are you in the herb garden, alone?"

"Gathering herbs," he answered. "Hold these," and he handed her an armful of yarrow and lemon balm. He moved through the herbs, her following like a shadow as he went on, "Mr. Fell and I have magic."

"Yes, I _know_ that."

"Do not get short with me, young lady," he snapped, the moonlight glinting off of his battered spectacles. "Our magic acted to protect us. It provided a clean break from the trees we were bound to. But Mr. Printzen –"

The realization was cold and horrific. Mark had no magic. He had nothing that would protect him when the magic binding man to tree simply – snapped.

"That scream—"

"Yes. Now come quickly. These herbs might help."

"Mark—"

"Mr. Fell helped as best he could. He's with Mark now. And I will need your magic to assist mine in the—" whatever he said next was lost in the rustle, hustle of pushing shrubbery and hedges aside. Calliope could hear some lower sound – a broken, suppressed cry of pain.

She saw above the hedge the oak, ash, and thorn trees that she had enchanted.

Uncle turned and touched her arm. "Brace yourself."

Calliope, a cold new fear tearing at her, followed him into the clearing.

She could hardly see anything, for at that moment a cloud covered the moon.

But that was better, wasn't it? Asked the cowardly part of her. All she could see was the oak tree, burst open – it would be dead by spring – and shadows, thrashing on the ground – at once she _had_ to see, she _must_ see – she pulled out her wand with a trembling hand. "_L-Lumos!_"

Carnage met her eyes. Januarius knelt on the ground, holding the Muggle in his lap, counting in Latin, covering Mark's mouth with his hand to keep him from crying out. She barely recognized Mark. He was covered in blood, moaning and shaking with pain.

Calliope came closer, because that was what Uncle was doing. Mark's skin was raw, scratched, and bleeding; his fingers were limp and bruised and didn't bend right; both of his legs looked twisted. Blood was everywhere.

"What…"

"The tree," Uncle's voice wasn't more than a breath. "The tree crushed him."

"I did this… _I did this_."

"Yes," he agreed, "but inadvertently. Don't gawp, Calliope, help me."

She turned, and saw that he was twining the stems of herbs into circles. The circle was the most powerful magical symbol, especially for healing. She tucked her wand away and helped her uncle. She smelled the lemon balm and yarrow. "What is this for?"

"You know very well my philosophy," he said with a grim smile. "When there is no wand, make your own. Here. You remember the song your mother sang?"

"I bind unto myself today, the virtues of the starlit heaven," Januarius muttered rapidly.

"The other one," Uncle said, eyes fixed on Calliope as he closed the last circle.

Calliope didn't answer; she was still stunned by Mark and his labored breathing and bloodied skin. She numbly followed Uncle in placing the rings of herbs on Mark's shoulders, chest, stomach, arms, hands, legs, feet. Every ring touched another. Uncle laid his fingers, trembling in the cold, on the nearest, and began to sing:

"_Flower, gleam, and glow – _

_Let your power shine,"_

One by one, light fell on the wreaths –like the light of a summer's day in the midst of Halloween. Each wreath, one by one, grew to fullest, liveliest green, and died – but where they died, the wounds clotted, and closed.

Calliope touched the wreaths and added her own voice, halting at first, but growing in strength,

"_Make the clock reverse,_

_Bring back what once was mine_…

_Heal what has been hurt,_

_Change the fates' design,_

_Save what has been lost,_

_Bring back what once was mine –_

_What once was mine_."

At the end it was her voice that sounded more clearly than Uncle's. And Mark had stopped shaking, and his bleeding was stopped, and Januarius released his mouth, muttering "More blood…"

"Mark, are you all right? Mark?" Calliope asked him in a whisper.

The more she looked at him the more injuries she saw. He had two black eyes developing, but their pupils contracted in the wandlight. He stared through her, unseeing. Blood trickled from his nose. Slowly, his eyelids closed. Calliope brushed aside his hair.

"He's stopped bleeding, at least."

"Don't be so sure," her Uncle said. "The worst of his injuries are on the inside. And I'm afraid our spell numbed more than it healed. But you did well, Calliope. Where is –"

"Immobile, deaf," she answered.

"He won't be for long," was his answer.

"We finish escaping, then." Calliope looked towards where Turpentine lay. He couldn't throw off her spell that quickly – could he? Or had the healing taken longer than she had thought? She gripped her wand tight.

Uncle bent down and gave Mark his cloak, wrapping him securely. Then he slowly pulled the injured man up, so he could lean on him. Januarius remained seated, staring at his hand, until Calliope lent him hers. "Come on."

He gave her his hand – it was wet and sticky.

"What _is_ this?" she asked – and in the same moment realized: it was Januarius' blood. Mark had bitten him in his agony and he had not said a word.

"My blood," the reverend replied simply. "Fascinating."

He didn't observe Calliope to be actually listening to him, but went on as if she were: "So very like his blood. He swallowed my blood, you know. I felt it. We're truly bound, now. Blood brothers. And I understand it. While I was with the hawthorn tree I felt it – the connections between it all. Within the earth, within the sky, between earth and sky, and me anchoring the whole. I am connected to all; we are all connected. How can I hate? How can I close myself to my brothers? Mark is my brother. I will never forget that. My brother. Connections. The world is bound with secret knots."

"_What is he talking about_?" Calliope whispered to no one, absolutely not in the mood for metaphysical epiphanies. "Januarius, please return to the planet Earth and help me get this off."

"This" referred to the top of the well. Januarius, absolutely unperturbed by the fact that he had an enchanted stick rather than a proper wand, helped her to levitate the heavy top and drop it quietly onto the grass.

They both approached the stone rim, covered in withered vines, and peered over into the depths below. The mouth of the well was wide, and from it a still colder breath emanated in the cold night.

Calliope leaned over it, her breath making a fog. "Now, we just have to ascertain how deep it –"

"_Hoop_!" Januarius, with surprising athleticism, vaulted over the rim of the well and leapt in.

Mouth open in silent horror, Calliope stared down into the well until she heard him cry – _something_ –

"What was that?" she asked.

"I think it was '_Wingardium Leviosa_,'" her Uncle answered, a few steps behind, supporting Mark.

A little longer, and there was a splash.

"I guess being insane has its advantages," Uncle muttered. Calliope saw, briefly, green sparks erupt at the bottom of the well, illuminating the bottom – far, far below – and a distant form in water.

"Green sparks," she muttered. "That means it's safe to go."

"_Calliope!_" The scream came from across the garden. It was Turpentine. "_Where are you_?"

Calliope's grip on the stone wall of the well was so tight her fingers hurt, but she controlled herself enough to turn around. She looked at Uncle. Mark was beginning to stir.

"All right, so –" She reached out her arms to touch them, just briefly, and she had to touch them both gently, Uncle because of his age and imprisonment, Mark because of his injuries – how had it come to this? – she took a deep breath. "You two, into the well. If I'm not there in ten, no, five minutes… then just go on without me. Follow the flow and it should…"

"No," Uncle said.

"I'm not taking suggestions, Uncle. I am going to fight Turpentine and give you time to…"

"It won't work," he said flatly. "You're more exhausted than you know. You'll never last against him."

"That doesn't matter, if you can get away!" she snapped, her voice falling to a whisper.

Her Uncle's gaze was like steel. "Calliope, if he overpowers you, then that will be your torture and death. And they will find me – always – no matter where I go. But if I stay, they _will not kill me_. They need me alive. Do you understand? Someone needs to lead the escape. You're the only one who can."

She was shaking her head, feeling a lump rise in her throat, "I did not come all this way just to leave you behind, Uncle!"

"You are not leaving me behind, I am _staying_ behind. Do you understand?"

She looked at him – really _looked_. And for a moment, she did understand. She nodded, slowly.

And then she had to act, while she understood, before the moment passed and she fell prey to the instinct to play the hero. Uncle Servaas gently handed Mark over to Calliope, like he was a child. Mark was starting to come to again.

Uncle stood alone. Their back was to the well.

"I will take care of Turpentine," Uncle said softly.

"If you possibly can," she said, "Follow us down the well."

"Don't worry about me, worry about Mr. Printzen." Uncle stepped forward and laid a hand on their heads. "Bless you both," he muttered.

Calliope's hand tightened in Mark's. "Uncle—"

And Uncle Servaas _shouted_:

"_Leap, knave! Jump, whore!_"

And there was power in that phrase, and his magic surged through them both – lifting them up and casting them into the well, and as they fell into darkness, Uncle called something else, but the echoes made it too hard to understand –

and then they were falling,

and falling,

and falling, and the light above them closed out entirely. The top had been replaced on the well.

Silent and terrified, she clung to him tightly, until –

There was a cry, from below, and their flight was halted, like they'd just fallen into feathers–

Then they fell again. They hit the water, and were completely submerged.

ooo

Servaas replaced the top on the well with Weatherwax magic. Someone would certainly have heard his shout. He had very little time left.

Footsteps sounded over the grass. Turpentine was on the hunt, no doubt, for Calliope.

Servaas found the herb garden easily. And he searched and searched until –

"Aha!"

That unmistakable scent: Basil. He tugged at a stem, but his hands trembled. He pulled with all the strength he could, breaking the plant off nearly at the root. It had two stalks growing from it; he broke them off, pulled another stem out, and began to quickly twine them together.

He remembered his lessons on the magic of herbs, both those that his grandmother had given him, and those he had given over the years.

"Basil," he muttered in the gathering mist, "grows from the brains of murdered men. The plant of hatred…" His fingers trembled with the cold.

He braided them, and then twined them into a wreath. The circle was one of the most powerful magical symbols there was; no beginning and no end, the endless cycle, sun and moon. It was the mouth of a well and a golden wedding ring. It glistened faintly in the moonlight. It was a hangman's noose.

'_Let's not get carried away_,' he thought.

The footsteps came closer.

"Calliope?" Turpentine called out. "_Hominem Revelio!_"

Servaas felt the spell wash over him. And Turpentine knew where he was.

Good.

Turpentine was walking nearer in the darkness, stalking, his teeth showing in a wide smile. "I know you're here," he said, stretching out the words he could not hear until they were taut as bowstrings. "You can't hide from me. Just come over without fuss, hmm? I'll see to it you're treated like a princess. You can even be with your Uncle and your Muggle again. We're going to have so much…"

He sensed, rather than heard, something behind him. He half-turned, but _something_ was cast over his head, around his neck, in a heartbeat.

He never heard the words that Mr. Ollivander said, but the stems and leaves around his neck suddenly glowed a vivid green –

– the stench of basil –

ooo

It wasn't long before the escape was known. Death Eaters ran out of the house, seeking the prisoners, led by Bellatrix Lestrange. Thorfinn Rowle, however, realized at the same time that he didn't know where his brother was. He ran out into the garden yelling "Turpin? _Turpin!_"

They found Turpin on the path outside of the herb garden, lying on his stomach, dead. No wounds; it had been the Killing Curse. But there was a strange weapon: a withered ring of leaves around his neck, which someone said looked like a kind of herb, and which crumbled at the touch.

They only ever found one of the prisoners: Mr. Ollivander was at the eastern wall of the garden, trying to scale the low-hanging willow tree. He was calling, "Go on without me! Go! Go! Now!"

And when they captured him again, Bellatrix Lestrange sent a squad out to scan the entire eastern part of the grounds and over the moors to find the other prisoners, and no one noticed how Mr. Ollivander had calmed and fallen quiet. He never once looked at the well.

The only odd thing that he did, in fact, was the next day, after he had been given his food ration, he asked the guards, "Please, sirs – can I have a bowl of water and a towel? I want to wash my hands."

The guard gave him an odd look. "What do you need _that_ for?"

"My hands – they stink. They stink of basil."


	31. The Door Opens

**The Open Door**

The water was almost like ice, and plugged their breath. They clung to each other and Calliope kicked up, up, _up_, that was the only thing that she could manage, it was so cold, there was so much water and not enough air –

She broke the surface, much to her surprise. Mark, surfacing, coughed heavily.

"Light?" That had been Januarius. He was standing against the curved wall. "Light! Yes!" His makeshift wand was lit and aloft, or at least it was until he dove into the water. His light followed him. He helped Calliope haul Mark to the wall, where the three of them could cling. Januarius held his blood-brother out of the water and looked at Calliope. "Mr. Ollivander?"

She looked up. There was absolutely no light from the top of the shaft. "He won't be coming," she said, her teeth chattering. "Mark? Are you all right?"

"No," he said, Uncle's cloak clinging to him. "I'm cold…"

She pulled out her wand and rapped Mark, then Januarius, then herself on the tops of their heads with a Drying Charm. "Better?"

"Yes…" But his breath still came out in a little fog.

"You can't swim… how are we to get down there?" Calliope looked to where the water led. That was their only way out.

"There's a spell here…" Januarius dabbled one hand in the water. "There's magic here. If I may…" He started to take out his wand.

"No. I'll do it." Calliope remembered: Matin had mentioned a spell in the water, old but not dead, to summon a raft. She pointed her wand at the water and tried to sound out the spell. It took some time. Finally, something rose up from the water – or maybe the water shaped itself into a raft – or maybe both.

By the light of Januarius' wand, she saw it: a raft, small and wooden and bobbing along the surface of the water. He twitched his wand and called the raft to him. "Well, it's not seaworthy, but it should do."

"It's perfect." Calliope eased Mark onto it, reclining him on her lap, and when Jan was settled on, there was just enough room for the tree of them. "I'll keep the light up. Januarius, you steer."

"Will do."

"Mark, are you hurting anywhere?"

"No… not… right now… numb…"

She stroked his hair and face. The water had washed away the blood, but a bright red wound still showed on his temple, and his eyes were badly swollen. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. What do you remember?"

"Kiss," he murmured. "Like falling asleep. I woke up inside a tree. I'm not all right."

"I know you're not. Just rest now, rest. We'll take you to a hospital when – oh my god, the Patronus."

"What?" Jan asked.

"I have to cast a Patronus."

"Can you?"

"I – yes, yes, I can, I have before." She took out her wand and, first, focused on a message. She had to communicate the most important facts as they stood. As she pieced them together she felt a deep reluctance to even try to cast a spell. Exhaustion. '_Just one more spell_,' she coaxed herself. '_Just one more_.'

She had the message set. Now to think of a happy memory. Mark loved her; she thought of the garden at Hollywyck, wasn't that enough? But Mark lying in her lap now undid that. _She did this_. Nothing came to her, nothing of calm or strength or happiness…

Then it was as if she heard Benedicte's voice. '_To die will be an awfully big adventure_.' She saw the calm smile and felt the kiss on her forehead – and she knew that, sure as the turning of the earth, Benedicte was with her even then. Without thinking further she raised her wand. "_Expecto Patronum_."

Silver light flashed from the end of her linden wand and shaped a rat. Spry, lithe, and quick, it raced over the water and vanished from sight.

She gave a long sigh and felt her hands trembling. She was suddenly very weary, weary – even that Patronus was costing her. She was almost out of magic.

It was very eerie under the well. The faint light from Calliope's wand, and the even fainter light from Januarius', filled the tunnel with more shadows than illumination. The only sound was the slap of water against rock. Their every breath sent a fog into the air.

Calliope flinched at another sound, then realized it was an echo – she had been singing something very softly and hadn't noticed. Only the water, eager to return her own voice, had made her realize it.

"Keep singing," Mark muttered.

So she did. She sang a little French song her father had taught her, and something Muggle, that she only half-remembered the words to – the chorus was "Let it be, let it be." When she fell silent, the echoes carried a little while, then died. For a long time all was quiet under the well.

"I've never seen a rat Patronus before," the minister commented abruptly.

At first Calliope had to remember what he was talking about. "Oh! Yes. I think it's for Benedicte – my godmother."

"… Oh."

Mark coughed a little. "Are you all right?" Calliope asked. "Are you hurting anywhere?"

"Me?" He smiled up at her. "I'm in your lap; I'll be set for a while."

"Let me know if you start to hurt," she ordered him.

He nodded vaguely, and coughed again – this time he leaned over the side of the boat to spit out. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" he insisted.

"Rest, my brother." That was Januarius, touching Mark's right hand (twisted and limp and bruised) with his own.

Calliope looked at the minister. "You called him brother."

"Yes."

His answer was so flat that it warranted no response. Instead Calliope stroked Mark, grazing his fringe, his jaw, and then the square medallion at his neck. The Hanged Man.

"When did he get that?" Januarius asked her.

"Julietta gave it to us, before we left Hollywyck."

"I'm trying to understand why she gave him that card. And you, the High Priestess… also odd."

"Do you have a card?"

"My sister says in her readings, I am either the Magician or the Hierophant – the Pope."

"Imagine that," Mark sighed.

"Giving you the High Priestess –" Januarius continued, "she trusts you very much."

"Er – all right."

"And you, my brother – I think she was afraid for your sake."

"Paranoid little thing. Bless her." Mark coughed. "I'm fine," he assured her quickly. "Why 'brother'?"

"We are truly brothers, you and I. I have only just now acknowledged it."

Calliope peered into the darkness ahead. "I wonder where _my_ brother is…"

ooo

"Where _is_ my sister?" Linus asked himself every minute.

The courtroom had been in almost complete pandemonium. More and more protesters were escorted out. More and more barristers were called in to debate legislation on what to do when two witnesses to a trial had been Polyjuiced, one had been under Imperius, and most of the others had now vanished entirely. Those still denying that Polyjuice had been administered were forced to fall silent when "Mark Printzen" gave a hiccup and suddenly expanded in size and height. The tall and burly Proteus Troup asked sheepishly for a change of clothes.

The hours dragged on. The courtroom would close up soon, and everything would begin again tomorrow, except for the current ongoing searches for the real Calliope and Mark.

Circe had been found to have no Polyjuice whatsoever in her bloodstream, and for some reason Hector stormed about this, marching back and forth, staring ahead in his cold anger, until Linus asked him what the matter was.

"Oh, nothing. Just that she's lying. She _must_ be lying. You know what she said?"

"Who?"

"Circe, who else? She said, Tisiphone is the one impersonating Calliope. _Tess_! Of all the idiotic, irrational – of all the people to name how _dare_ she slander my sister? How dare she?"

Linus did not answer. Hector was beside himself with worry over Andrew, whose status showed no signs of changing. He would be carted to the Sycorax that night. Besides, Linus felt very inclined to just shut up. His words had done far too much damage already.

Every witness who had seen Calliope remove his Imperius Curse was being questioned and questioned again. Turpin Rowle was nowhere in sight, nor his brother. Healer Bonebright had come back with Amity after inspecting her throat.

"I want it noted for the Court," he sternly told Linus and Percy Weasley, court scribe, "that Miss Tweak's condition has been exacerbated. Her throat has been damaged past her ability to speak. From what she's told me, Turpin Rowle is responsible for her illness, and if she's truly been suffering for two months, this may even involve Dark magic."

They had been standing in a waiting room off of the courtroom – Hector, Bonebright, Amity, Weasley, Agatha Zabini, and Linus. The outer cloak of Linus' Obliviator uniform was draped over a chair – he had begun to find it very constricting. Amity, he noticed, was wearing a very pretty brooch, like a scallop. Her eyes were downcast.

"But come, sir," Weasley had said, "It can't be that bad. Surely she'll talk again sooner or later."

"I would not be so sure of that if I were you," was Bonebright's reply.

Linus wanted to say something to Amity, but she did not meet his eye. How had it come to this?

_My fault_.

Calliope gone, Mark missing, Andrew chained, Hector frenzied, Amity voiceless, and the wizarding world in uproar. His fault that he was too foolish to resist the Imperius Curse, and stubborn enough in hating Mark to not recognize the suggestions of a Death Eater.

All was his fault.

Guild rose in him like floodwater – and somehow he returned back to the very first time he'd ever felt guilt. Someone had given him a present. He'd been very young. For some reason he did not like the present. He'd taken it in his little hand and – thrown it? Smashed it? Broken it, somehow. Right in front of the person who had given it to him – no, _made_ it for him. He'd yelled and had a temper tantrum and been sent to his room. So he was even madder, in the complete anger of a little boy.

But gradually the anger had subsided. He'd heard crying. The person who had made the gift for him. Made it with love, thinking of the little boy who did not deserve that love. Because in that moment Linus learned guilt. That was his first sin. He didn't deserve love, he never had, and he never could, not when he abused it, like Calliope's trust and Mark's safety and Amity's voice.

And when his Papa finally let him out, Linus had run to the other room, where the crying had come from. Now there was silence. And Mum's voice called him to dinner, but he had to open that door, he had to –

It mattered, it mattered so much –

He couldn't remember…

What was on the other side of that door?

o

In Bindweed Hall at that moment, Calliope touched the painting of the Ollivander children.

o

_The door opened. _

_Benedicte looked down at her foolish baby brother, and smiled at him through the tracks of her tears. _

"_Benny," said the boy, "Benedicte, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." _

_And she had knelt and hugged him. He hugged her back, clinging to her linen shirt and her steady heartbeat. He loved her so much. _

_She said, "I know, Linus, I know. It's okay. I forgive you. I forgive you."_

"Linus?"

That was Hector's voice, Hector who hadn't been born when – Hector was frowning at Linus, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yes, everything is okay," Linus gabbled without knowing what he said – why was his voice cracking? Why were his glasses wet? He tasted salt. People were staring at him. "I – excuse me – sorry…" He ran to the men's restroom, feeling unexpectedly dizzy and confused.

In the bathroom, he looked into the mirror, and saw _her_ – she was in his eyes, his nose, in his posture and hands. Benedicte, his hero, his big sister who was everything he wanted to be and more besides. Benedicte, whom he had lost.

"_I forgive you." _

Benedicte, whom he had found.

Linus remembered.

He smiled weakly at himself, then bent over the sink and wept.

ooo

When he showed his face later he was decently composed. He stepped outside of the men's room and noticed Fleur Delacour – or as he thought of her, "that stunning French girl who hangs out with Calliope," walking away fast, in company with her red-haired fiancé. Linus hailed Fleur in halting French.

The two of them stopped, and turned to look at Linus as he stammered, "Sorry, but – where are you going?"

Fleur glanced around. He pressed, "Look, I know you're not just a pretty French birdbrain. Do you know where Calliope is? I'm her brother. Do you remember me?"

Fleur and the man looked at each other. She turned to Linus and said in French, "We are going to someone who knows where Calliope is."

"Take me with you, please," Linus answered in the same language. "I'm begging you."

"The barristers are packing up and all the judges are gone," the red-headed man mentioned in English. Linus did not know him; he didn't know that he was talking to two people who were both very protective of their younger siblings.

"You're sure you want to come with us?" Fleur asked.

"_Yes_."

"Come on, then." Fleur and her boyfriend beckoned as they resumed walking.

It wasn't until after he'd been properly introduced to Bill Weasley and Apparated to Hogsmeade that he realized he hadn't said goodbye to Amity. Fresh guilt tore at him. But it would be okay. He would make things right by her, somehow.

Dora met the three at the Hog's Head. She had been surprised to see Linus, and asked if he could help in a fight. Linus honestly didn't think so – since his memory was restored he'd felt shaken, weak, and uncertain, but he tried to reassure her by saying he had one of his mother's dueling wands. But when he patted his pocket, he realized he didn't. He had his own walnut wand, and Gregorovitch's gift of the new-old wand with the snake carving.

'_Great_,' he thought, '_I need the Elder Wand and I get the bloody snake wand_.'

"Well, at least I know you won't lose your head," Dora commented. "No mead, Aberforth," she said to the barkeeper, "not tonight. Now listen. Calliope sent me a message earlier, talking about a place called Bindweed Hall. I don't know how she knows about that place, but she does. She's gone there, and the first thing I did was to call up an old friend in that neighborhood…"

ooo

That was hours ago. Now Linus was out somewhere on the moors of Yorkshire with Dora, Fleur, and Bill, standing guard over a river. They were flying low over the banks, looking for an opening, a light, a person – anything.

"You're sure it will be on this side?" Linus asked.

"It should be. Keep left, you're going too close to the center."

Linus complied, and everyone swayed slightly with the turn. Because they weren't on four broomsticks with a stretcher between them, as Bill had suggested. Instead, Linus had leapt to volunteer an old family resource that would accommodate up to ten people with a little room to stretch out.

Yes, he'd gone to Hollywyck and rolled out his grandfather's flying carpet.

It looked more or less ordinary, being a faded mahogany in color with a repeating motif of sandalwood leaves. Still, it was a _flying carpet_, with tassels and everything, and he expected Mark would start up a jig on seeing it.

At least, he hoped so.

However, there were a few issues about dusting off one's grandfather's old flying carpet. For one thing, it would only respond to commands given to it in Arabic. Bill Weasley was therefore acting as co-pilot. For another, the flying spells had needed to be replaced and touched up, and Linus knew that the carpet needed a more thorough restoration by a professional.

But it was still flying, through a pitch-black night, where the storm had settled down to a fine drizzle, and the only lights were provided by the wands on-board the aircraft.

No one else was saying much, so Linus' thoughts were safely allowed to chase themselves in circles. Yes, he'd need to hire a professional… someone who knew as much about carpets as Uncle Servaas did about wands…

Or Hector…

As soon as Linus had stepped onto Hollywyck, Scurry had met him and taken him to the master bedroom, saying it was urgent. He'd found Tess, unconscious and tied up. The strange girl standing guard with ferocious eyes had said Calliope had defeated her. But that had to be a mistake – there was no way that Tess would do something like that –

"Look!" Fleur cried.

A Patronus was skimming along the surface of the water. It appeared to look up. As Bill told the carpet to stop, the small silvery thing climbed onto the air with nimble grace. As it clambered onto the carpet, Linus saw that it was a small rat. It sat up on its hind legs and began to speak in Calliope's voice.

"_Have left Bindweed Hall. Taking underground passage, by water. Am approaching the entrance of the river. Not alone, need medical assistance. Am almost out of magic. No pursuers, I think_."

Linus was floored – or would have been, if there had been a proper floor. As it was, _a talking Patronus_? Calliope casting a talking Patronus? Where did she learn that?

"I taught her," Dora said calmly, seeing his shock.

"Oh. Of course."

"Show us where you came from," Dora instructed the Patronus. It hopped down from the air and began to run farther along the river's course.

"Er, Mr. Weasley, can you make it…" Before Linus had finished Bill was already speaking in rapid-fire Arabic. The carpet matched its course to that of the rat.

'_Am almost out of magic_.' Those words chilled Linus to the bone – fortunately the carpet itself was warm enough, thanks to Fleur's warming charms that kept the air at a decent temperature. If Calliope was almost out of magic, how would she make any signal without a –

"Wait. Dora, does Calliope have a wand?"

"Yes," was Dora's distracted reply. "She said she did, in her last message."

"Ah. Whew." Well, then. Calliope could set up sparks, like any first-year at Hogwarts.

Bill pointed. "Down there! Lower!" he shouted the command to _Descend_ in Arabic and the carpet came to an unsteady halt above the ground.

The rat Patronus had turned inward, back onto the bank. A creek trickled into the river, and along its side, lavender and silver sparks erupted.

"It's her!" Linus whispered. It only made sense… those had been the very colors that Calliope's wand had cast that day in Uncle's shop when she had been given her linden wand –

'_How do you remember that_?' he asked himself, '_You weren't _there.'

'_But I imagined it so often, and my family described it to me so well, I remember every detail_… _memory is a funny thing_…'

"_Linus!_" his sister was crying as the carpet descended, "Is that Grandpapa's flying carpet?"

"Yes! Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about me, and don't land yet – follow me!"

She hurried back through the trees that grew thickly along the riverbank. They followed above the canopy, lowering when she stopped in a clearing.

"Stay here," Fleur told Linus as she sprang off, following Dora's lead.

Someone was muttering in Latin, and Calliope was bending over. "Januarius, what are you saying? Mark, what is he doing?"

"B-beats me…" came a weak voice. Calliope, seeing Fleur and Dora approaching, stepped back. Linus squinted, leaning forward. Who was the person so badly injured? And where was Mark –

He recognized him, and with recognition came horror. Januarius was kneeling by Mark and held his left hand – very delicately – and didn't stop his Latin muttering until the patient was levitated onto a stretcher and brought onto the carpet. Bill was ready with a warm blanket.

"Mark, isn't this lovely?" Calliope's voice was chipper and almost unrecognizable. "A real flying carpet for us!" Bill draped her with another blanket.

"Heh – yeah – g-g-great – " Mark's teeth were chattering so hard, "too bad-d I'm too c-c-cold to…"

Bill supplied a second blanket before Mark even finished the sentence, and said in a friendly way, "There, that feel better? Don't worry, we're going to take care of you."

Calliope sat on the edge of the carpet. Now Januarius was the only one left standing on the ground. He stared at them, then glanced away to the forest, as if feeling he didn't belong with them. Linus noticed he was holding a branch of birch in his hand.

"Oh, come on, you, don't sit there and mope." Dora grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the carpet. "Bill, a blanket for him, he's like ice!"

"I think we all are," Calliope pulled her blanket around her. "It's really – Dora, I can't believe you really came out here. And Linus – I just can't – thank you."

"_Mais bien sur_," Fleur said good-naturedly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Dora clapped Calliope on the arm. "Everyone on board? Everyone securely on? All right—take it from here, boys."

Bill spoke and Linus steered, and they rose above the treetops. The air became even colder, but Fleur's Warming Charms were set to work straightaway. Linus fixed his eyes on the sky and ground ahead of them, while Januarius sat on the back of the carpet and stared out at nothing, and said nothing. Dora continued to take command.

"Any sign of pursuit? Bill, any questions about the directions? Good. Mark, are you all right?"

Mark's jaw was clenched tight and he shook his head. "I think… the spell… is wearing off…"

Dora said, "Do you want a sleeping potion?" No answer. "I said, do you want a sleeping potion?"

Mark thought for a long moment. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, please. Callie?"

"Yes?"

"Could you stay with me until… I'm asleep?"

"Of course."

"Yes… please, look at me…"

Calliope smiled. "Of course." After he took the potion, she leaned low over him, looking at him and smiling. He smiled weakly at her, and as he closed his eyes he whispered, "I love you…"

"I know…" she kissed his forehead. "Now, sleep." Hesitating at first, she kissed his lips gently, a lingering touch. When she drew away, he was smiling, asleep already.

She sat up and pulled her blankets around her tighter, feeling that sleep would be so, so good right now…

"Calliope, can we talk?"

She looked up. "I'm so tired, Dora…"

"I know. But you should tell me now, while it's all still fresh in your mind. The fact that you've left Bindweed Hall alive with two hostages is astounding and I'm quite curious. Indulge me?"

She sighed. "How long until we get Mark to medical care?"

"Maybe ten minutes from here, at this speed. No more. I swear."

"Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Just how did you know about Bindweed Hall? Even I know only a little bit about it. How did you find out, and how did you get your wand back?"

Calliope looked at Dora sharply. "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Dora raised her eyebrows. "Try me."

So Calliope told her story, from the moment she walked into the Agnes Stidolph School with her cello in her hand. Dora listened, Linus listened, Fleur listened, Bill listened, and probably Januarius listened, though he gave no sign.


	32. The Rod of Asclepius

The Rod of Asclepius

A/N: This chapter contains another shout-out to _Tangled_, and another _Discworld_ reference. Try to spot it, Discworld residents, and then treat yourself to a scumble. (Or don't, really.)

I can't believe that I've actually exceeded thirty chapters. *whistle* The plot's definitely winding down, though. If you've stuck it out this far, you have my sincere thanks. (And a review is always appreciated.)

Enjoy!

ooooo

They were in the clearing, the water of the well rushing away besides them. They were waiting for something, anything, to come and take them away. Where to? No idea…

Mark lay on the ground. Januarius stayed with him. Calliope had just vanished to the riverbank to try and alert their rescue party.

Mark coughed blood twice, in quick succession. His hand found Januarius'. "Jan… do you really believe I don't have a soul?"

The minister swallowed. "No, I … I mean, I changed my mind. I think."

"Jan… one favor."

"Anything."

"G-g-give me…" Mark's teeth began to chatter, he clenched his eyes shut and forced himself to say the next words steadily, "Extreme Unction. Please. I beg of you."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes I will."

Mark opened his eyes and looked at him sadly. "Don't let her know."

Januarius nodded and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross over Mark. Fortunately his religion could be carried anywhere, and performed by mere words, a little water, and belief.

"In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti…"

ooo

The storm had passed over Yorkshire, leaving a sense of lingering quiet. This was a night to burrow up at home in front of a roaring fire, or visit a friend and do the same. Sudhir, a medical student who was in spitting distance of his degree, got a call from a friend of his and had set out to visit her promptly. Mrs. Ferndean was a retired doctor and widowed. She lived alone on the top floor of an old building, and he liked to make sure she wasn't too lonely on nights like these.

"Evening, Mrs. F," he said as she opened the door. "How are you this evening?"

"Could be better. Could be better," Mrs. Ferndean, a lean and slightly stooped woman with iron-gray hair, led him into her parlor. "Thanks for visiting."

"No problem at all. Need any repair work done?" Sudhir was tall, stocky, and fit, so he didn't mind acting as general handyman.

"No, no… I just want a little company."

Sudhir noticed that the place had been cleaned up recently, and there was food heating over the stove. "Are you expecting more company? Is there competition for this gentleman caller?"

"Hmph. We'll see." Mrs. Ferndean settled in a chair and asked Sudhir how his classes were going. Sudhir talked easily about that, and then the conversation evolved onto other topics, until he was astounded to find it was almost midnight. But Mrs. Ferndean wouldn't hear of him leaving. So he stayed on.

Sudhir was just taking Mrs. Ferndean though a step-by-step description of Wednesday's emergency Caesarean section when she looked at the clock over the mantelpiece. "Say, I feel like taking a bit of fresh air. Care to walk with me up to the roof?"

"Er, not at this time of year, I don't think? It's Halloween night…"

"So humor a superstitious old lady who doesn't want to be alone on All Hallows' Eve." Mrs. Ferndean's voice was stern for a supposedly superstitious woman. "And I would like to see if the stars have come out. Come along."

They went out to the rooftop, Mrs. Ferndean clutching a bag. The clouds were clearing, and yes, a few stars were visible. "Isn't it a lovely night?" Sudhir rubbed his arms to keep warm. Mrs. Ferndean didn't answer. She was scanning the sky through a pair of – binoculars? "What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Aha. Step back, Sudhir." She pulled him back when he failed to comply. A whooshing sound grew louder and louder over the wind – and Sudhir realized something was flying down towards them out of the night sky.

Mrs. Ferndean clicked on a torch. "All right! Who are you?"

Sudhir gaped. It was a flying – no, that was impossible – a _flying carpet_, and there were at least six people on it – no, seven, someone was lying down on it. The bespectacled man sitting in front – the driver? – stared at Sudhir with just as much surprise as Sudhir felt.

ooo

Linus stared openly at the old woman and the dark-skinned man standing on the roof. They looked like Muggles…this had to be the wrong house, Dora would say so and – Dora held up her hands. "Mrs. Ferndean," she said very carefully, "I'm an old friend of your husband's."

The lady's guard visibly relaxed. "All right," she said, "I've been expecting you." As Dora jumped off of the carpet, revealing Mark, she added, "That's my patient, then. Keep him steady, guest room's right through here."

"Who is this?" Calliope asked Dora.

"This is Renee Ferndean," Dora said, "And – him? I don't know."

"Student of mine," Mrs. Ferndean said crisply. The student stared at the flying carpet, the robes, and the nonchalant way in which Bill and Fleur conjured a stretcher, levitated Mark onto it, and led him through the doorway and down the stairs.

Linus was now the only person left on the carpet as he parked and rolled it up. Mrs. Ferndean glanced at him and then started back. "An Obliviator?"

"It's okay, Mrs. Ferndean, he's off duty, he's with us," Dora was quick to assure her. But Mrs. Ferndean gave him a shrewd look before turning around to follow her patient.

Calliope had not left Mark's side. The door from the roof led into a small flat. The second bedroom had a wide cupboard and room on either side of the bed to move around. Mark was lowered onto it.

She felt her calm hope evaporating. The guest room was pleasant and tidy, but hospital-like, with white walls and a strong ceiling lamp. Its light showed that Mark's skin was colorless, except for the red trickling from his temple into his hair.

"Sudhir, open up that cupboard, touch nothing," Mrs. Ferndean bent over the bed and unclasped the cloak that Servaas Ollivander had given Mark.

Fleur gasped; Calliope felt weak. The gashes across Mark's chest and shoulders were bleeding anew, and barely an inch of skin wasn't covered with a vivid bruise. The bruise continued past his trouser waist and all down his arms. Now in the unforgiving light Calliope could see that four fingers were broken, his nose wasn't the same shape as before, both of his eyes had almost swelled shut, his left arm was bent wrong, and his legs were horribly crooked.

Mrs. Ferndean took in a breath through her teeth. "What did this? Someone tell me at once."

"A botched Transfiguration attempt."

Everyone started. Januarius Fell had spoken for the first time since sitting on the carpet. He went on, cool and clear, "He was turned into a tree. But the spell didn't finish well. The caster stopped concentrating, and as he's a Muggle –"

"A Muggle?" Mrs. Ferndean repeated.

"Yes. He re-consolidated inside the tree rather than detaching from it."

"A-ha. Turning into a tree, that's a new one," Mrs. Ferndean spoke under her breath as she took Mark's pulse, felt for broken ribs, and shone a torch into his eyes. She turned on her heel and went for the cupboard. "Was any medicine performed on him in the meantime?"

"Yes. A spell to numb the pain and staunch the bleeding." Again, Januarius had spoken.

"Well, it's kept him alive. Where _is_ that thing? Anthony, St. Anthony, help me look around… Death Eaters, yes? Always coming up with new ways to torture AHA! You can't hide from me!" the last bit was addressed to a handheld magnifying glass. Mrs. Ferndean handled it as carefully as if it were finest crystal. Its blue handle had snakes twining around it. "Now, do you still work?" she held out her hand so that she looked at it through the frame. "'_Prinum, Non Nocere_.'"

"Is that a spell?" Linus asked. (He had his hand closed tight on his new-old wand; it had been twitching erratically since he'd entered the room.)

"Hippocratic Oath," Dora answered him shortly.

Mrs. Ferndean seemed satisfied with what she saw: a light came from the glass. "Still got it. Sudhir—"

"What is going on?" The young man – who was clearly a Muggle – demanded.

"Watch a bit and maybe you'll find out." She held the glass out over Mark and peered through it. "Oh… that is interesting. See here?"

Sudhir looked. The bewildered expression on his face was replaced by a keen, inquiring one.

"Oh – and he coughed blood, four or five times, before he fell unconscious an hour ago," Januarius added. "Is that important?"

Mrs. Ferndean nodded impatiently. "Yes, it is. You would all do me a favor if you lot went to the kitchen. I've set up the tea and some leftover potatoes, and it'll do more good than gawking."

Meekly, the five adults filed out, Calliope the last.

Mrs. Ferndean's flat was all very tidy, but homey, and the potatoes she set out were ravenously consumed. A little Wizarding Wireless sat on the counter next to a Muggle wireless, and photographs were taped to the refrigerator. Linus looked at them. "Dora, who is this woman?"

"Her name is Renee Ferndean."

"How do you know her husband?"

"His name was Walter Ferndean. He was a member of the Order in the old war. His wife helped out, and in return for a few perks and favors she doesn't mind if we drop in sometimes."

"She seems… scatterbrained."

"So she thinks out loud. All of us would sound scatterbrained if we did that."

"And Sudhir?"

"I don't know what he's doing here. But if she trusts him, I do."

"These photographs – did she freeze them or are they Muggle photos?"

"I suspect the latter. She _is_ a Muggle, after all."

Linus almost spit out his tea. "What?"

"My hair is falling apart," Calliope disconsolately, staring into her tea.

"Your braid ees almost completely ruined. 'Ere _cherie_, let me fix zat for you." Fleur whisked out a comb (one of the many beauty supplies she kept concealed about her person) and worked Calliope's braid out. "Yes, you'll feel better soon. _Reste calme et continue_, as ze English say."

Linus took another biscuit. "Why does she have so much Healer equipment if she's just a Muggle?"

"I've never asked." Dora sipped her tea mildly.

"But that's your job!"

"What, to keep a Healer from plying her craft?"

"She's not a Healer!"

"Neither are you, Linus. She's a doctor, and she's _good_ at what she does. I wouldn't have brought Mark here if she weren't."

"Will we take him to St. Mungo's later?" Calliope asked.

Dora had just taken a sip of tea, so Bill answered, "An arrest warrant is out for Mr. Printzen. If I understood right, it's the kind of warrant where St. Mungo's is liable if they treat him before reporting him."

"So not St. Mungo's, but isn't there _anyone_ closer?"

"Linus, calm down," Bill said. "The Order trusts her, that should be enough for you." In the pause that followed, Fleur's chatter sounded oddly loud as she said to Calliope, "You 'ave such lovely 'air, 'ave you ever thought of curling it? _Non_? So pretty, I am sure – I 'ave always wanted raven hair…"

Calliope said nothing.

"Now sit up, and don' be sad, _cherie_. We'll freshen you up so zat when Mr. Pransen –" her way of pronouncing "Printzen" – "wakes up and sees you smiling over him, so pretty 'e fall in love with you all over again." That brought a smile to her face, at least.

Mrs. Ferndean came out of the hallway. Everyone fell silent. She said, "Well – you all saw the bruises and cuts. I'm sorry to say that's only the superficial damage. His worst trauma is on the inside." Linus started to ask something but she held up a hand. "His organs are shutting down, and with his internal bleeding he can't even begin to fight it."

"Blood-replenishing potion," Bill Weasley suggested at the same time that Januarius' head snapped up. "Give him my blood."

"I have a small supply of potions, and they won't help at this level of trauma," she answered. "And you, how do you know what a blood transfusion _is_?"

"I got one, twelve days ago."

"Then you can't give blood now. Now let me finish." She paused. "He's fallen comatose. He's not going to wake up again. He's going to die."

"No –"

Mrs. Ferndean looked at Calliope with real sympathy. The girl had covered her mouth with one hand and her eyes were wide.

"He was dying when you brought him here. I'm sorry. Let Sudhir and I finish up, and you can sit with him until the end."

She walked out, back to the sick room. Sudhir was putting bandages on the worst of the wounds, because no one ought to lie in their own blood. "Is it always like this?" he asked her. "These, these wizards, flying in out of nowhere and giving you cases you can't work with?"

"I don't often lose people," she admitted, helping him clean the last wound.

"Why did you bring me along tonight?"

"This will sound silly, but –"

A woman's voice came from the kitchen, yelling indistinctly except for the line, "—of taking him to a _real_ Healer!"

Sudhir glared in the direction of the kitchen. "How dare she say that?"

"Oh, I've heard it before." Mrs. Ferndean tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Heard it from the patients I saved, too. It's a pretty thankless job, especially for us non-magical folk. But this post is needed. The war's begun again."

"What war?"

"I'll tell you later. That's why I'm taking you on. I need the help –"

"You need an apprentice?" Sudhir was disbelieving.

"You have the right stuff. I trust you. And where do you think you're going, preacher?" The last was addressed to the thin and sheepish-looking reverend who was tiptoeing past the open door. He paused. "I'm going to number the stars."

"Well, take a blanket. You'll catch your death of cold. They're in the cupboard to your left."

Sudhir pointed to the Hippocratic Glass. "Where can I get one of those?"

Footsteps sounded, and the tall woman stalked past the door, following the priest.

"This?" Mrs. Ferndean asked. "That is probably worth everything in this building put together, plus the building. Let's keep it here, just in case." She set it on the bedside table.

"Worth that much?"

"It was a gift from Walter, that was." She smiled at memory. She looked at her patient. "First call in so many years, and a case like this… poor man. Nothing more we can do."

ooo

After Mrs. Ferndean left the kitchen, there was a long silence. Everyone looked at Calliope, who stared at nothing. Finally, Dora sat down next to her. After a pause she said, "Calliope, I'm so sorry."

Jerkily, Calliope turned her head to look at her.

"Sometimes these things just – happen – I'm sorry. If there's anything I can –"

"I don't want your sorry," Calliope whispered in a hoarse voice. "I risked my life to find him, I talked with Benedicte, I _left Uncle behind_ to save him, and I don't want your _sorry_!"

Dora said nothing.

"Is that it? You're only _sorry_?" Calliope's eyes were bright with anger.

"I did what I could –"

"You didn't do enough! You brought him here instead of taking him to a _real _Healer! It's your fault he's—" She choked before she could finish the word.

"This is my fault, Calliope, I'm sorry, please, can you forgive me?" Dora was crying now, her confidence gone. She tried to hug her friend. "We'll get through this –"

"Don't touch me, leave me alone, where did Januarius go?" She looked around in the kitchen. The preacher was gone, but Bill pointed down through the corridor to the roof. Calliope got up and followed him. When she was gone, Dora laid her head on the table. Fleur crept to Bill's side, and he held her close. Linus stared at nothing.

ooo

Calliope found Januarius on the rooftop, wrapped in a blanket, looking at the stars. He leaned against the rolled-up bulk of the magic carpet.

"Mr. Fell, _what _did you do to Mark?"

He turned to her. She was half-outlined in the yellow light from the hallway, angry and agitated. "To what do you refer?"

"When I step away for one minute you're bent over him and murmuring in Latin, next he falls asleep and won't wake up, _what did you do_?"

"Extreme Unction."

"Extreme _what_?'

"The Anointing of the Dying," he answered calmly.

"And why did you do that?"

"He asked me to." He watched her anger burn out and turn to ash as he went on. "He knew he was dying. He wanted to make his peace with God. I did what I could." Softly, "He didn't want you to know. I'm so sorry."

Without anger, without hope, almost without energy, Calliope sagged against the doorframe. As though Januarius was not there, she turned away and stumbled inside. Januarius closed the door behind her. He prayed for his brother, and Calliope, and Mrs. Ferndean, and Julietta and Uncle Ollivander, and waited for Death.

He counted the stars in the meantime.

ooo

Linus waited for Calliope to return from following Januarius, but she did not. Instead, Mrs. Ferndean and her student entered the kitchen (Linus put a hand to his wand again, but it lay calm and quiet. Good. Why did it act so strangely around the injured Mark?)

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Ferndean laid a hand on Dora's elbow. Dora looked up and wiped tears away, just shaking her head. Mrs. Ferndean sat down. "The tall woman's with the patient. She asked to be alone. Are they close?"

Fleur ventured, "Zey wanted to be, I theenk." Mrs. Ferndean gave a low _hmm_.

"Will it be long?" asked Linus.

"Depends on what you mean by long. He could linger for a few hours. Maybe. Is this Muggle the person I've been reading about in the _Prophet_? The man who was on trial today for Presumption?"

"Yes," Linus said flatly.

Mrs. Ferndean looked closely at him. "Your voice is familiar. You spoke at the trial today, too."

"I… I testified…" Linus covered his mouth with his hand. "Please, I don't want to say more. If I could take back what I said…"

"Well, you can't," Mrs. Ferndean interrupted him bluntly.

"Are you still on the Floo Network?" Dora asked Mrs. Ferndean.

"No. Not since my son learned to Apparate."

"… All right, then. I've got a message to send. Let me do that," Dora stood up heavily, as if carrying an immense load, "and then I'll explain this whole scenario."

"Um, Mrs. F? There's something silvery pawing at the window…" her student said uneasily.

"Let it in," Mrs. Ferndean replied. When Sudhir did so, a lynx-shaped Patronus sped into the room and settled on the kitchen table. It began to speak in a deep, sonorous bass voice, but Linus was out and in the darkening corridor already. The door to the patient's room was slightly ajar. He moved towards it stealthily, and could just hear his sister's voice. He approached… her voice became clearer. Her voice was quavering and soft:

"—I mean it – never look at me again, never talk to me, but just _live_. Please, stay with me, Mark, stay with me… don't leave me – I'm sorry… can you hear me? Can you hear me? I love you, I love…"

Linus moved away from the door so fast that he was out past the kitchen and in the dark parlor before he realized that Calliope must have heard his footsteps. He cursed himself. He sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was hearing Dora say, "_What_? Kingsley's losing his mind…"

Losing – loss – lost – the words sunk into Linus' mind, until he dreamed that he could hear someone singing, "_Heal what has been hurt, change the fate's design, save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine… what once was mine._"

As the singing faded, a green light appeared, from farther away than the confines of the little parlor. The faint green light appeared to be coursing towards him, smoothly and in no haste. Watching it Linus felt – _aware_ – aware of his heart and his lungs and his bones and muscles working together – it was all a series of systems that could be understood, easily grasped, if only –

–_Take me up and save him_ –

The coursing green light stood before him, swaying slightly. He reached out his hand towards it – the light resolved itself into a snake, opened its mouth as if to strike –

"Hey, rise and shine, eh?"

Linus started. Someone was shaking him awake. It was Sudhir. He smiled at him. "Hey, I was just thinking you might want to lie down more properly. Didn't look quite comfortable."

Linus' feet were on the floor, his hand was thrust out into space, and his head was tilted crazily to the right; no, it wasn't comfortable, but he had managed to have a very sound nap. He shook his head. "How long –"

"Not more than an hour."

"Is Mark still –"

"I checked on him. He's still alive, yeah. And the tall girl – is she your sister? – she's asleep next to him. Should I –"

"Don't wake her up." Linus stood up and stumbled his way towards the sickroom. He ignored Bill and Fleur's sleepy, inquiring gazes. Something was pulling him – he had to see Calliope and try and –

In the doorway of the sickroom he stopped. What was he going to do? _Help_?

Inside it was perfectly quiet. Calliope was curled up in the chair, fast asleep. Mark was – well, he was still breathing. That was something.

Linus walked towards the bed slowly, as if approaching a coffin. He made a fist – then realized he was holding his new-old wand. He did not remember taking it out.

The light was electric – maybe that's why the snake carved on it seemed more detailed than usual, and seemed to – almost seemed ready to move –

'_Stop that, Linus, you are sleep-deprived and this means _nothing_.'_ But another part of him, the part that had been quiet since childhood, that had listened to lullabies, beckoned. He thought he could sense a voice, or the barest suggestion of a voice, the faint outline of consciousness – coming from the wand.

He looked at the wand. He saw the carved snake like he had never seen it before, and remembered Benedicte's puppets.

"The Rod of Asclepius," he said out loud.

Upon hearing its name, the voice of the Rod became stronger in his mind.

—_Much to do. Not much time. Use me. If you pay your price. He will live._ —

Live. That was all he needed to hear.

He leaned over Mark's prone form, only to realize he had only the barest idea of what was wrong. He reached to pick up the magnifying lens that Mrs. Ferndean had used. It was powerfully enchanted, ridiculously valuable, and should not belong to a Muggle – but those were the last thoughts Linus had before he let out a low breath, letting go of his logic and embracing the unknown. Embraced the Rod of Asclepius.

"_Prinum Non Nocere_."

The glass lit up. Holding it over Mark he saw the victim's inner workings clearly. If Linus had any sort of Muggle vocabulary, he would have called it like an X-Ray, except far more precise.

"Muscles. Blood. Bones. Nerves." Each system showed clearly at the sound of his voice. The damage was profound. His hand trembled as he put the glass down. '_I don't even know where to start_.'

The Rod, however, did. It guided itself to rest on Mark's breastbone, and Linus set his left hand on Mark's forehead and hair. He closed his eyes and reached out with his magic. Not enough – he pushed his mind to its limit, straining his will, and still was left grasping.

—_Why do you heal_. —

Out of guilt, for forgiveness, because it was right, and more – more than that – love. Love for Calliope, and love for Mark. Yes, he could love Mark. It was like a seed that had been covered over by dry rot, hate and anger, but the seed had not died.

_There_. —

He pushed his magic with his will and love, and at once was _with_ Mark; not within him or without him, but _with _him.

It was at once like and entirely unlike Leglimency: sinking past the mind and the conscious brain into the nerves, the very threads of grey matter and white that carried the deep lightning of life.

It was as though he was a green light in a black space, maintaining his presence, his existence, against the – the _everything else._

It was like being in a horrifically crowded and chaotic tube station, all panic and confusion, but beyond the panic was the growing sense of winding down, of the system giving up.

That would not happen.

—_First, the brain_. —

He was at home in the brain. He focused there. The skull was cracked, and there were lesions – not many, but too many for all that. The wand directed Linus' magic into a spell pattern like he had never performed before – but to which he was not unsuited. It matched him – to take what was out of place and disordered, and restore it to its working state, with utmost delicacy. The bones repaired, the blood clotted, neurons were coaxed into healing, yes, it was stable.

Next, the heart. Naturally. And lungs. He coaxed life back into dying tissue, strengthened what was failing, cleaned out the spilled blood and swelling fluid with astounding efficiency – he vaguely wondered if he was in a trance, or in communion, but discarded it. There was only the healing.

He flowed out from the heart to blood vessels, broken and failing. Repair, repair, repair. An idea nagged at him – something was just a little _off_. But it wasn't important. Probably nothing. The work was all, it was engrossing and invigorating – and he could tell less and less what came from him and what came from the Rod. How could he have failed to realize before, what a gift he had been given?

Now the stomach, liver, kidneys… Bit by bit (something was wrong) amazing how the littlest parts fit together to form a greater whole, now clot the torn muscles (something was definitely wrong), the spinal column (but Mark was healing fine), skeletal muscle…

Linus' consciousness was jarred back to his own body. He realized that whatever was going wrong was with _himself_.

He opened his eyes; He was bent far over the bed, the electric light throwing his shadow over Mark. Linus was breathing heavily – and Sudhir was there, supporting him, saying, "Sir, are you all right? Say something!"

A gurgle, a hideous choked feeling, Linus thrashed away from him and saw a small trash can. He knelt in front of it and coughed and spat. Two gobs of blood landed with a rustle on the plastic bag on the inside of the can.

"What the hell? Why didn't you say you were hurt, too?" Sudhir demanded, and past him Linus heard his sister's voice, "What's going on? Linus, what are you doing? _Linus!_"

"Let go of me –" When Linus closed his eyes he could see it again, the black and the green light and the understanding, he could keep healing.

"Absolutely not, we may yet be able to save you…"

"I'm _healing_ him –" Another gurgle. Linus spat out a third gob of blood, then went on, wiping his chin, "_Look_ at him, can't you tell how much better he is?"

"I've been watching, all right? Right from the start. He's not yet out of danger, from what I can tell…"

"Please. Let me work. Let me just – finish. Complete this."

"Not if you're going to be dead when it's over." Sudhir did not relax his hold on him. They glared at each other until Calliope asked, "Linus, what is going on?"

Linus inhaled, his breath shuddering. The trance was almost slipping away. "Please. Please. Please, just let me heal him, and then I'll do whatever you want."

Sudhir slowly relaxed his hold. "That's a promise."

"Yes, sir."

"I won't let you die."

Linus was back in position, wand on Mark's sternum and his hand on Mark's head when Calliope put her hand over his. "Linus."

He looked at her, and saw that her face was entirely dry. She hadn't yet cried once tonight. "Linus. I don't want you _and_ Mark to die."

"He won't die," Linus said, but he looked through Calliope, and then turned back to Mark. He was lost to them.

Calliope was fully awake now, her eyes darting between her brother and Linus. She started at a touch on her shoulder. It was Dora. "What's going on? And what's with that wand he's got?"

ooo

On the roof of Renee Ferndean's house, Januarius was counting the stars.

Out of the starlight appeared a tall figure. It walked toward and past him, robed in deep black, carrying a curved blade over one shoulder. The bundle of hourglasses at his waist clinked.

"Hello, Death," said Januarius.

Death stopped and turned. His face was only a skull – of course. Januarius Fell. You can see me.

"Yes, now." Januarius did wonder. He'd been at many deaths and knew thestrals quite well, but this was new. "Are you here for Mark?"

Yes.

"How about a game, instead? For his soul?"

What did you have in mind?

"I don't suppose you, um, play Exploding Snap? No, that wouldn't be right. I never yet won a game of chess… I'm not in my right mind, you'd win easily, any game."

You're probably right. Death nodded and turned to go downstairs.

"Wait – I'm sorry – is Mr. Ollivander dead?"

Death turned his sky-blue eyes – lights, more like – more like stars, ancient and unchanging – to look at Jan. If you mean Servaas Ollivander, no, I have not met him tonight.

"And Turpentine?"

Turpin Rowle I have collected.

"Well… all right, then."

Death vanished through the door to the stairs. Only when the clink of his hourglasses had faded did Jan think of a trade. _'Damnation._' A life for a life. Him for his brother. '_Eternal damnation!_'

But before he could berate himself properly, the clinking sound returned. Death reappeared, looking – despite the lack of facial components – quite put out.

"What's happened?"

His time is restored. Death held out an hourglass. It read "Mark Printzen." Sand trickled to the bottom, but it also filled up the top; at the moment, the future was looking decent.

"Thank God!" Jan exclaimed. "Er – begging your pardon."

It is not that it annoys me. I haven't seen this particular prevention in over eighty years.

"Oh."

It's quite discombobulating.

"Yes, I imagine so."

Then again, with modern medicine what it is… Death twined the hourglass back onto his belt. I will see you later, Mr. Fell.

"Ah. Yes. Same to you."

Januarius shook himself. Had he just – fallen asleep? It was very cold out tonight – and long past midnight for sure. He bundled the blankets around him and headed inside.

The atmosphere had changed. The red-headed man and blonde woman were putting on coats and saying goodbye, heading out in a hurry. The short woman who was in command was giving them final details on a message– he looked into the room where Mark was supposed to die. But it was no longer a room for death. There was activity: Linus was slumped in a chair, bone-pale and trembling, with an apparatus strapped to his arm, and the younger Muggle was talking to him and making him drink a deep red potion sip by sip. On the bed, Dr. Ferndean was rubbing bruise balm – he recognized the smell – on what were left of Mark's injuries. The same red potion Linus was drinking was hung up in a small bag next to Mark, fed into his arm – Januarius winced and looked at his brother's face. He was breathing more normally, now, deeply unconscious. But his skin wasn't the color of ash anymore, and Dr. Ferndean worked over him (her Muggle methods completely baffling) with a tenacity of purpose she wouldn't have used on a dying man.

Satisfied, Januarius returned to the kitchen. A cup of tea would be delightful.

In the kitchen there was a heavy smell that nearly made him gag – a tang of iron hung in the air. "What _is_ that?" he asked out loud. A cauldron was sitting on the stove, sending out a low fog and an unbearable stench.

He realized he wasn't alone in the kitchen. Calliope was sitting at the table, her head in her hands, and she glanced up at him to say, "Blood-replenishing potion… Dora's whipping up a batch…"

"What are you doing out here?" He took a paper napkin and held it to his nose and mouth.

"Well, I didn't want to be – you know – in the way."

"What happened?" He pointed his new wand – this was a _nice_ wand, he liked it – at the teakettle. The water in it boiled up. Boxes of tea were set out on the counter. He poured himself a cup.

"I don't know, exactly – but Linus saved Mark's life. Of all the things. Isn't that funny?"

Januarius nodded, muttering "I must save Linus' life, then…"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dora came into the kitchen and gave the pot a stir. "Second batch is almost ready. How are you, Calliope?"

"He's going to live."

"Both of them will."

"Dora… I'm sorry about what I said. I'm sorry."

"Hey, we all say things we don't mean when… when things like this happen."

Januarius watched the two women talking, and then hugging, as though through a distant window. He remembered the hourglass he'd seen – had that really happened? Had he really seen Death and looked at the hourglass of Mark's life? How much sand was left for _him_, or for the two women in front of him?

Dora sat down at the table, and took Calliope's hands in her own. "You're like ice," she commented.

"You aren't much better off."

"Did you really – you know – talk with Benedicte?"

"I think so… God, that was weird."

"If you don't mind, you'll have to tell me all about that some day."

"Yeah. But not now."

"I don't expect to hear it now." Dora rubbed Calliope's hands until the warmth returned to them. "Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, love."

At five in the morning, Linus woke up from one of the best sleeps he'd had in months. Some clatter had woken him up – there was an ambulance there, sent by the Ministry of Magic. It was having a devil of a time convincing Dr. Ferndean that it was legitimate and not, in fact, sent by Death Eaters.

Linus sat up, and then fell back down again, with his abdomen throbbing in six different kinds of pain. He tried to tally up what he'd healed: lungs, ribs, kidneys, heart… he quickly gave up, because the list was getting very depressing.

Calliope was asked not to accompany Mark to St. Mungo's, or to the Embassy. Dora offered to take her back to Hogsmeade, then looked at Linus and said, "Unless you'd rather go back together to your flat…"

Calliope kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, without answering, and Linus muttered, "Actually, I'm not planning on… returning, er, to my flat."

He kissed his sister on the cheek good-bye, and said a hurried "Thanks" to Mrs. Ferndean as she entered the room, busily tidying up. It was a paltry bit of gratitude, but he had to do something.

He passed by Sudhir on the way to the roof, and after a fairly uncertain moment, held out his right hand. "I want to say, thanks very much for everything you've done. You're a commendable… um…"

"Doctor," Sudhir prompted.

"Yes. That." Sudhir shook his hand, then let the wizard leave. Linus left Dr. Ferndean's flat by Disapparating off of the roof, making a mental note to send Scurry back to pick up the carpet.

He Apparated to Richmond, outside of London – a long journey, but after his sleep he felt capable of anything. (Except for the landing – his ribs didn't like the shock of it. But he recovered quickly.) He held the Rod of Asclepius tight, and when he closed his eyes, there it was, flickering, like a strong dream – the green, the sense of healing, the light…

The owl for the _Daily Prophet_ had just arrived at their front window. Linus was wondering what spell he would have to use, when he saw Amity at the window, opening it to let the owl in. She saw him and gave a halfhearted wave, then vanished. She appeared at the door a few minutes later, notebook in hand and a rose pink scarf around her neck. She opened the gate to let him in, clearly confused.

She started to put up her notebook to write but Linus halted her. "Just – wait a minute…"

He unknotted the scarf around her neck. His hand grazed her skin and his heart gave an odd skip. He took both of his wands – the Rod in his right, his walnut wand in his left – and placed them in an "X" on her throat. He shut his eyes, shutting out her bewilderment, and concentrated.

The rising sun had fully broken through the mist when he stopped, taking his wands away. Amity touched her neck, hardly daring to believe it. She spoke, her voice halting from disuse, but as clear as ever. "My voice – Linus – you've brought back my voice – how – how on earth?"

Linus started to say, "It's a funny story, but if you'll believe me when I say that an impossibly powerful magical artifact somehow found its way to me…" but he only managed the first syllable in a hoarse, raspy ghost of his voice. Flustered, he looked away from her.

But, with just one syllable, Amity understood.

She guided his face so that he was looking at her, then kissed him, standing on tiptoe. When she broke off, smiling, he was completely speechless.

"Come on," she said, tugging him up the walk. "I'll fix you some tea."

He found himself grinning like an idiot. The morning air was full of gold.


	33. Families

Families

Andrew spent the night in the Sycorax, not knowing if Mark was alive or dead.

Hector stayed at his flat, but didn't sleep much, until at six in the morning, when he got an owl calling him away. Januarius went with Dora back to Hogwarts, where he found out that Julietta spent the night in her old Hufflepuff dormitory with her friends. He rented a room at one of Hogsmeade's inns, and Julietta joined him for breakfast the next day.

Tisiphone's back was stiff. It creaked and ached as she tried to move.. She had a bad crick in her neck – how did she sleep sitting up? She opened her eyes.

She was in the master bedroom of Hollywyck – who had put her here –

_ Calliope_. Of course.

She was propped up on the bed. Her hands and legs were tied. She struggled…

"Give it up."

Someone was standing at the window and approached, glaring at her. It was a girl of around sixteen, with a tough expression, short hair, and knotted shoulders. "Good morning."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I was sent to keep watch. I wouldn't suggest turning your head. Likely you're mighty stiff."

"You've got some nerve –"

"I'm a werewolf. 'Nerve' is widely held as one of our better qualities."

Tisiphone recoiled and the girl gave a dark little laugh.

"If you really must know, I'm standing guard on your cousin Calliope's orders. I don't care what her issue is with you, or you with her. What I heard is, you traded my teacher, Mark, to the Death Eaters. And I want to know, why?"

Tisiphone kept her face turned away, impassively. The girl scowled. "Why did you? Are you some kind of psychopath? Did he insult you? Was it love? _What_?"

At the word 'love,' Tisiphone jumped. "Oh god, where is he?"

"Who? Mark?"

"No, Jan!" Tess tried to move, kicking her tied feet. "God, how long have I been out?"

"It's only six thirty in the morning."

"Oh, no – no, no no no no no –"

"What's wrong?"

"Jan – he was my collateral – if I'm not there they'll – damn, _damn_, DAMN!"

"Calm down, lady, what's going on? Who are 'they'?"

"The _Death Eaters_, who else? The deal was that I would work for them in exchange for them fixing Jan – that's what your precious Mark did, he's the one who drove Jan insane, and if I'm not there, if I failed they'll torture Jan, no, no, no, they'll kill him –"

"He's not dead," said a third voice. Tisiphone froze. "He's been rescued from the Death Eaters."

The third speaker had stood behind Tisiphone since she'd woken up, and now walked into her line of sight. "He's safe, and more than that, his mental recovery is beginning. So you can calm down about him. There's still, however, a few knots to tie up. So, tell me, Sis…" Hector stood in front of his sister, looking down. "Why did you join them?"

"I didn't join them."

"Didn't join the Death Eaters?" Hector took a deep breath. "Guadalupe, will you give us a moment, please?" He continued calmly, "So you took Polyjuice Potion and impersonated Calliope for almost twenty four hours by accident?"

"I'm not one of them, I just worked with them for this one situation."

"Just one case, the one case that involved kidnapping, impersonation, perjury, _torture_ – just one case means you're still a Death Eater!"

"I am NOT!"

He closed his eyes. "Fine. Okay. So you're not. Why, then, did you lead me to think for all intents and purposes that you were?"

"It was not about you, you were never supposed to know, you were supposed to be out of the way."

"Yes, I heard. Kidnapped. I appreciate the thought."

"You would be safe. You and Jan would be safe."

"While Mark was held for torturing and Andrew was charged guilty with Presumption. Do you understand what's happened? Accusations are pouring in from all over the country. Wizards and witches are pegging Muggleborns as magic stealers. It's a new paranoia, something new to be afraid of, and people are leaping on it. And _you_ brought it to life. Unless you really believe it?"

"I believe that those men need to be taken out and Obliviated, I believe they're depraved and despicable."

Hector's mouth twisted, though his eyes never left his sister's face. "Are you trying to tell me that you did this just because I fell in love with Andrew?"

"More than that – it was Mark and what he did to Jan."

"Which Mark had _no_ control over. Why couldn't you have thought about it for five seconds?"

"I was confused –"

"Five goddamn seconds to _think_, Tess, _think_, that maybe I really _am_ gay, that Mark was trying to save Jan, that it was Jan's sick mind that drove him to try to kill himself, _his_ choice, why couldn't you _think_?"

"I'm not good at thinking! Shut up! You and Linus and Calliope were always thinking, thinking, thinking – do you know what Calliope did?"

"What did she do."

"I tried to go to her after Jan… called me a whore… and she wouldn't have anything to do with me. I went to her, I needed to just talk to someone and I couldn't go to you –"

"You could _always_ have gone to me."

"No, I couldn't. I went to her and she turned me out, she shut the door in my face."

"Then what happened?"

She paused, thinking, letting the words come slowly. "That day… that night when I got the owl, saying that Jan was in the hospital, I must've stood still for, what, fifteen minutes, trying to decide where to go. My brain couldn't work."

"You could have gone to me."

"But that would…" she couldn't finish. "I could have gone to Julietta… comforted her. But I've never been any good at comforting. I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to go to Jan, but they would never let me see him. If he was still alive. I should have gone to Julietta. But I went out. I found a bar. I drank. I… drank. And I remembered what I'd tried to forget – someone had given me, once, a name, the name to call on if you thought that the Death Eaters were all right, if you wanted to join them. Someone had thought I could be a good Death Eater. And when I was drunk enough, finding that card, and going to that place, and meeting that person, all seemed like such good ideas. And then even when I was sober, they were good ideas. But now… Oh, god, I should have comforted her. I should have held her and said it would be all right…"

Tears ran down her face, but he pressed on. "Why did you keep it up until the end?"

"Oh, Hector, I don't know… I just… I got started, what was I going to do, _walk out_? It was the only thing to do… and this way Jan would stop trying to kill himself. He'd be all right again… and the people, they were – they weren't _bad_, they were almost kindred spirits, you know?"

He shook his head.

"They were all set, it was all planned out – the impersonation, the Polyjuice, the kidnapping – but they didn't have enough people. I volunteered to play Calliope. They loved that idea. It was easy enough – I replaced her at the Agnes Stidolph School during the confusion. When Linus came to collect me, I pretended to be in shock, I just clammed up. I drank some potion early in the morning, and when the trial started – I just play acted. It was almost fun, until she showed up… Turpentine had the idea to switch me out, hold the trade-off, the Muggle for me, just to give us all an excuse to get away together."

"I wasn't supposed to be there at all," Hector said to himself.

"No, you weren't. It was just supposed to be the Muggle. I didn't think he was going to take the offer. But – he _did_. He actually gave himself up for her. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. And when he took hold of me – when Mark touched me – I hated Calliope even more, that someone loved her so much he'd go to the Death Eaters for her. Then… Calliope showed up. And I improvised some more.…"

"Did you _have_ to fight Calliope?"

"Well, what was I supposed to do? They left… they left…" she started to choke up, "they left me…" Hector turned to the window until the worst of her sobs were spent, and she spluttered, "Those sons of bitches! How could they leave me? I only… I was never more to them than… oh, god, what have I done? What have I done?"

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears off of her face. Then, he said, "You made a choice. You committed to it over a long period of time, against obstacles and oppositions. It was your choice. From beginning to end."

"Hector…"

"And you'll pay for it in more than just time." He looked at her for a long moment, and she stared back. Finally, he pocketed the handkerchief. "Goodbye, Tisiphone."

"Hector… I'm sorry…" He stepped out the door. "_Hector!_"

Alastor Moody, in the cloak of a Reserve member of Magical Law Enforcement, was waiting for him in the corridor. "Well?"

"She's confessed. I've said my part. She's all yours."

Moody and the other M.L.E. officers flowed into the room, and placed Tisiphone Gibbs under arrest, while Hector walked heavily downstairs and out onto the lawn, where he stood in the November wind and fog and shivered and shivered.

Linus had only finished breakfast at Amity's (they had lingered over breakfast), and Calliope was still sleeping soundly at Dora's Hogsmeade flat, when a black owl arrived for both of them, giving a set of Apparition coordinates and a request to appear there immediately, signed, the Department of Missing Persons.

They met each other at the coordinates, very confused. Linus, indeed, was very pale and drawn, and walked stiffly, as though in pain. A Ministry official wearing black robes with green trim greeted them, and gave them directions further into the woods.

Calliope looked around, stunned, as if in a dream. This was the forest, just south of Hollywyck, where she had led the Portkey from yesterday. Where were the centaurs?

She asked the guide, and she shrugged. "Sharp of you to notice this is their land, but they called on the Beast Division yesterday, saying they wished to report some find – but they've kept well out of the way since we began the excavation."

"Excavating what?" Linus asked, his voice a ragged croak.

Their guide frowned. "We are not certain, but we believe it might be the body of Benedicte Ollivander. I believe you are her next of kin?"

"Yes," Calliope mumbled, dazed. "She was our sister."

"We'll do what we can to identify the body as soon as we have it fully dug up. Meantime, we appreciate you coming out here."

"Then, there _is_ a body?" Calliope asked.

"Yes. Just beyond that tree there." She pointed.

Calliope's stomach seemed to drop. That was not far at all from the very spot she had placed the Portkey. There was tape set up, people were digging.

"The Voice of the Dead," she muttered. She took Linus' arm, as much to support him as herself. He seemed stunned, beyond speech. Their guide wisely decided they needed a moment.

They stood alone, beyond the careful activity surrounding the body, alone, leaning on each other, but unable to be anything but frightened, anxious, grieving.

"Oh god," Linus kept muttering in his sore voice. "Oh, god."

They heard another Apparation "pop."

"Sir?" Asked their guide, looking behind them. "Sir, are you authorized to be here?"

"I am," said a male voice, deep and soft with just the touch of a French accent. "I have the letter here; I am the next of kin."

As one, Calliope and Linus turned. They saw him at the same moment that he saw them. She gasped, "Papa?"

Modeste Samara strode forward to his children, kissing both of their cheeks and saying, "I meant to visit you – both of you – today. I've read about your exploits in the newspapers, _why_ haven't you written to me – but I arrived last night, and got the owl this morning. I hoped I could find you here."

He looked at them, studying them. He saw their pallor, his daughter's weariness, his son's pain. "Now, now," he said more gently. "Don't look so sad. I'm here, yes? And we're together to find her." He looked at the excavation site.

"You know?" Calliope asked.

"What else could it be? I've waited for that owl for twenty years. _Allons, mes enfants_."

With that simple phrase, their returned father hoisted the burden, loaning his strength to theirs. Silently, the family went up the hill to collect their lost girl.

Some time later, when the silence between them became too much, Calliope explained to Linus and her father that this forest was where she had led the Apparation of herself and four other people, without meaning to, the other day. She related the facts airily, as if they had happened to someone else.

Modeste, upon hearing this, had taken off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Wow. Incredible. What are the odds of you, just happening to find her?"

"Better than you'd think, Papa. Better than you'd think."

The Ollivander family identified the body as Benedicte (but Linus very nearly lost it when they were bringing the body out of the ground, and he had to go several hundred feet away and be alone), and then headed to the Department of Missing Persons to close the long-standing case. But first, they made a stop at Gringotts' bank.

ooo

That afternoon, Renee Ferndean received a letter by owl mail. As it wasn't one of her son's epistles from Dublin, she opened the window to the bird very cautiously.

It dropped a very velvet small purse on the table, along with a note. Renee put on her reading glasses, scanned the note, and three words in particular stood out: "_For your excellent service_." And a postscript, "_Proceeds to be shared with your apprentice as you deem fit_."

She opened the purse, and a vast quantity of silver coins – far more than the velvet should have reasonably contained – spilled out.

Renee smiled. She was indeed living in interesting times.

ooo

In the hospital wing of the American Embassy, Mark was starting to stir awake.

"Look, he's moving his hand…"

"Mark, can you hear me?"

"Not so loud! He's just waking up…"

Mark slowly opened his eyes. The voices were drawing him out… he closed his eyes again.

"Mark, darling, stay awake, please, for me…"

That voice – the sweet voice he'd loved since longer than he knew – he could wake up, he could face whatever pain he had to for her – he opened his eyes and saw her. Her eyes were filling with tears even as she smiled, and she held his hand and was starting to talk…

But wait… things came into focus… where he was, when this was, who _she_ was…

"_Mom?_"

ooo

It had happened like this.

Mark had been moved to the hospital wing of the American Embassy compound, unconscious, and not entirely recovered, but stable. Through the intervention of one of Andrew's colleagues, Calliope and Linus were given clearance to visit.

In the hospital, Linus felt uncomfortable, obligated to do something in the medical environment. But given that he'd been introduced to the role of healer about thirty hours ago, he felt a distinct lack of any authority to carry him through the ranks. Not to mention, Calliope and Mark may as well have been across the Channel for all that he could connect to either. So, pleading a headache (not a lie), he slipped outside. He even stood on the curb of the Muggle street, tasting the November air, looking around him. A group of tourists caught his eye. They sounded American and seemed to be two married couples, around middle age. They appeared to be arguing.

A heavyset man with light brown hair was saying, "Pat, you said that you could get in touch with Andrew whenever you wanted, we asked everyone and he's _not here_. Where is he?"

"I don't know," the black woman named Pat answered. "I don't! He should be here…"

"Pat, admit it." This time, the speaker was a small woman, the wife, it seemed, of the first speaker. "You don't know anything more about this situation than we do."

"_That_ is not true," Pat retorted. "That is not true at all."

"Then you know something," the other woman continued, "and you're not telling us. You've known ever since Mark went missing in September and you're not telling us?"

Pat clenched her jaw and looked away. Her husband put a hand on her arm and said, "Jane, Fritz, could we have a minute?"

"Is there anything you have to say that can't be said in front of us?" the other man – Fritz – demanded.

"Do you know something about what's happened to our sons?" Jane added in a tone no less fierce.

"I might," Linus said hoarsely. He cleared his throat as four pairs of eyes turned to look at him. "I might know."

He pointed to the white couple, whose expressions of confusion and suspicion were already familiar to him. "Your son is Mark Printzen. He's been in England since late August. And yours—" he noticed that the second couple was gripping each other's hands tightly as he spoke, "—Your son is Andrew Dupont. He works for the government, and he's recently gotten into trouble?" He swallowed hard, wishing his voice was clearer.

"Yes," said Mark's mother in a slow sigh. "How do you know? Who are you?"

He looked at Andrew's parents. "Because I'm the same as Andrew is. I've been with them all this time – I'm not the same with him _that _way!" He added hurriedly, "I'm not biphiliac or whatever he is – _you _know," he pleaded with them, trying to ignore the increasing confusion on the face of the Printzens.

"Where are they?" asked Mr. Dupont, his voice very low and sounding defeated.

"They're – in the Embassy." Linus paused. "The other Embassy. I can take you there – if you want."

It turned out, they did want that.

So Linus did what would have been unthinkable to him three months ago: he led four Muggles directly into the wizarding Embassy, without clearance or any outside authority. He led them through the lobby, past the conference rooms, to the hospital bay. Linus heard them muttering behind him, afraid of what they would find.

A passing nurse stared. "Do they have the right to—"

"Yes," Linus answered shortly, perhaps a bit too emphatically. "He quickly nodded to his father, seated outside of Mark's room, then he saw the door open. Calliope started to come out, eyes downcast.

"Is everything okay?" Linus asked, alert at once.

"Oh, yes – it's fine – he's going to wake up soon, is all, and – I don't want him to see me," she finished in a mumble. She glanced up, past her brother. "Who are –" her eyes widened, faces occurred in her memory. "Mark's – you're his parents."

"Have we met?" asked Mark's father.

His mother said slowly, "You're that girl, that one he brought to our Christmas party."

Calliope's face began to turn red. "Ah – yes – yes, I am – you should go in and see him. He's starting to wake up." She stepped aside, but the Printzens did not move.

"What happened to him?" his mother demanded just as his father asked "What's wrong?"

"It was an accident – it was my fault –" Linus circumvented her explanation.

"He's better now, really, so much better."

"How was it your fault?" Jane Printzen appeared to have sensed already that Calliope was to blame. "Who _are_ you people, anyway?"

A silence greeted this remark. Modeste coughed.

Then Pat, Andrew's mother, turned to Jane and Fritz and said, "Wizards, all right? They're wizards."

Linus was tempted to explain further, but thought better of it.

Fritz was the first to recover. "Wizards? Excuse me? Terry, what is she –"

"She's right," Terry, Andrew's father, answered. "There are some people who are born with magical powers. Wizards. Andrew was born a wizard. A few weeks back he wrote to us and said that Mark had somehow gotten entangled in magical politics here in England, so he was going off to—"

"Is Mark a – a – " Jane couldn't bring herself to finish.

"He's not a wizard," Pat answered quickly. "If he was, you would know. I'm sorry. We wanted to tell you about Andrew. Tabitha is a witch, too. We would have, but there's laws…"

"You're probably breaking about five laws right now yourself," Modeste informed his son. "Pardon me, but if I may demonstrate?" The Printzens turned to him. He drew out his wand. One after the other, he Conjured a wine glass, filled it with white wine, and handed it to an adult. "Don't feel that you're stupid or that you've been kept out of the loop. The vast, vast majority of all Muggles have no idea that wizards are any more than old stories. I haven't poisoned that wine, you know."

Patricia told him, "This is a very odd aroma for white wine." She took a sip. "Good palate, though."

"It was fermented in exact harmony with the phases of the moon. Wizarding oenology is a peculiar art—"

"Has magic hurt our son?" Fritz Printzen interrupted.

"Yes." Calliope answered.

"A spell gone wrong?" Andrew's father asked slowly, as if testing out a phrase in another language.

"Yes. He was hurt… badly."

"His muscles and bones were damaged. But magic," Linus put in quickly, "has also saved his life."

"And now he's going to wake up soon – I mean it – you should go in and see him." Calliope urged.

Patricia and Terry agreed, urging Jane and Fritz to go in and see Mark, saying that they would look for Andrew and meet them back in the hospital wing. Fritz and Janet looked at each other, then at Calliope, warily, before moving into the room, holding hands. The Duponts looked at the wizards. "Is Andrew also in this wing?" Pat asked.

"No, he's somewhere else," Calliope answered.

"Can you take us there?"

"I'll stay here," Modeste offered, "In case the Printzens have any questions."

By the time Linus located Andrew, the Ambassador had been informed of the presence of four unauthorized Muggles on his premises. By the time Linus had explained himself and the Duponts had provided their shared Clearance Card, granting them, as parents of a wizard, clearance to know about the American Wizarding World, Linus was exhausted again and his voice almost gone. He was relieved to find his sister and father waiting for them in the lobby. Modeste explained that the Duponts would take care of the Printzens, and that they were both very happy to be reunited with their sons.

ooo

Meanwhile, back in the hospital…

"Look, he's moving his hand…"

"Mark, can you hear me?"

"Not so loud! He's just waking up… Mark, darling, stay awake, please, for me…"

Mark slowly opened his eyes, groaning a little. His eyes focused, and at once he came to. "_Mom?_"

"Your delight is overwhelming," his father quipped, smiling with relief.

"Where are – _OW._" Mark had started to sit up, but the pain of his injuries was biting. With a sharp gasp, he lowered himself back onto his pillows. "Where are we?"

"In England," his mother answered, "Of course. Where you've been since _August_ without calling us more than three times in as many months."

Mark began to lift a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, but winced and lowered his arm. "Jesus Christ… I was dying. Am I really alive?"

"Yes, sweetheart. You thought you were going to die?"

"I was dying… I knew it…" he trailed off. "Where in England are we?"

"The American Embassy," his father answered. "The magical one."

"How… how did you get here?"

"Sweetie, don't worry about things too hard," his mother answered, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. "Just relax, focus on getting better…"

"I'm not dead…"

"Thank heaven."

"Where's Calliope?" he looked around.

"Is she that very tall woman with black hair?" his mother asked. "She showed us in. She said she didn't want you to see her. Now I mean it: Relax."

"Oh." He settled back – he had tried to sit up again. "That… makes sense."

"Nothing has to make sense, Mr. Mark," his father came around to stand on his other side, and take his son's hand. "We're here, everything will be okay."

Mark shook his head. "Oh, God, it's good to see you two again."

It was a long time before any of them spoke again. It was Fritz who said, "If you want to talk about sense, consider that we were shown here by a possibly bisexual British lunatic with strep throat."

Mark turned. "What… strep throat? Was he blonde?"

"Black-haired, actually," his mother answered. "Glasses."

He stared for a minute, and then shook his head. "I'm not going to try and make sense of that statement, I'm not, I'm not."

"Mr. Mark," his father used the childhood nickname, but his tone was serious, "How did you get here? Why are you involved in this?"

"Fritz, he's recovering, he almost died," Jane rebuked him.

"No, I feel well enough to tell you. I _want_ to tell you. But where to… even start… Well. Andrew is a wizard."

"We got that far. And Calliope is a witch, too, I take it?"

Mark nodded in response to his mother's question. "So… I guess I should start with saying I got her wand by accident…" He summarized his story awkwardly, with trailing-off sentences, tangents, and some subjects that he conspicuously avoided. He described the Death Eaters as terrorists, and (riding on his parents' infinite patience) reached the point of, "I was kidnapped and kind of tortured–"

Jane muttered, "Good holy God…"

"But I was fine from that, I mean, not _fine_, but walking around and cool and stuff. I actually escaped! I had help with Calliope – that woman you met – and this priest, Januarius Fell. He used to hate me, but now I think we're cool. He even says we're blood brothers, so hey, you get that second son we always wanted." He tried to insert some vim into his speech, but coughed instead.

His mother was not impressed. "How did you get so hurt?"

"Um… It was a spell that didn't go right. "

"A spell, where did the spell come from?"

"It was cast, Mom. Wizards and witches _cast_ spells, and this one was – um, Calliope cast it."

"… Calliope. That woman that you brought to one of our parties."

"Yes, but…"

"_She's_ the one who has left you hospitalized?"

"It used to be a lot worse! I almost died!" He realized belatedly that that was not the best bit of information to calm them down. "But I got better! See? Thanks to magic. Probably."

His father ran a hand through his hair. "How did you almost die because of this woman? Jane, let him speak, Mark, tell us, _now_."

"Oh, look. It's not as bad as you think. It was an escape. Top secret. She needed to disguise us – it was me and two other guys. Januarius and, um, Calliope's uncle. She disguised us by turning us into trees. Yes, Mom and Dad, trees. It was a very awkward experience, but it _worked_. Until… um…"

Fritz prompted, "Until?"

"I don't know what happened… but the spell broke. And then I was kind of… crushed… inside a tree."

Jane interrupted, "Did the last petal fall off an enchanted rose? How did it just break?"

"I don't know, I was a tree at the time! The spell broke its hold on all three of us. But the other two men were wizards, so they – I don't know, they weren't hurt by it. I was hurt by it. Badly."

Jane asked, cautiously, "Is that when you almost died?"

"Well, Calliope's uncle set a spell on me that stopped the, um, pain, and bleeding, but yeah, by the end of a couple of hours I was dying and I knew it. But I had Januarius – he's a priest – kind of – give me Anointing of the Dying, so I was all set."

His dad sighed. "It's Anointing of the Sick nowadays. You can't even keep up to date on your theology?"

"Well, Jan is old-fashioned."

"Shouldn't that be Father Janu- Janie… January-something?"

"I told you, we're blood brothers. It's cool. And then, um, there was a flying carpet, and I kind of remember lying in a bed and being taken care of… but that might have been here. So that's how I didn't die."

A long pause followed. Eventually, his mother asked, "So, this woman's…"

"Magic."

"_Magic_. Almost killed you."

"It was an accident."

Another pause. "… Almost killed you by accident."

"She was saving my life. She would never hurt me deliberately!"

"Sure." Jane folded her arms. "And 'I don't know her the way that you do' and 'You can change her, really.'"

"You – you think that this is an _abusive relationship?"_

"That's what it looks like, young man."

"That's so ridiculous!"

"Not as ridiculous as magic and wizards and sorcery," Fritz observed.

"There's hardly a relationship _there_ to be abusive in!"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" his mother snapped.

"… Does it?"

Both said together, "_No_."

"Look, you've got it all wrong. These are extraordinary circumstances. Calliope would never hurt me. You can ask her yourself. And the opportunity to turn me into a tree has never come up before, and I'm pretty sure it won't happen again."

"But it was by means of associating with this woman in the first place that you ended up being kidnapped by terrorists, and arrested for – what was it again?" his mother asked.

"Trying to be a wizard.

"Yes. I don't think I like this situation, this story, or this woman, at all!"

"Oh, _Mom…_"

A rap came at the door. An aide opened it. In the doorway stood a heavyset man wearing a red-and-white sash, looking for all the world like a very respectable Minnesotan. "If I may assist in the conversation?"

"Your Grace…" Mark tried to sit up, but his back and legs protested. "Mom, Dad… this is the wizarding Ambassador to the United States."

"You've just broken the law by giving out my real title," the Ambassador closed the door behind him. "But I thank you, because this is going to make things much easier to explain."

ooo

Linus found his sister and father waiting for him in the lobby. "I am looking forward to dinner. No, no arguing," Modeste cut them off. "Just a quiet meal – at Linus' apartment, perhaps? I've already asked Scurry to prepare it," he added, cutting off any further argument.

After a meal of steak-frites, a cheese plate, and a salad, Modeste looked at his children – all three now relaxed, well fed, and drinking tea – and he said evenly, "I arrived at England very angry with the both of you."

They looked at him, surprised. "Two entire months of danger, arrest, _kidnapping_, and neither of you thinks to contact me? Not once? Not one little note?"

Calliope mumbled something. Her father demanded she repeat it, and she said, "I though _Linus_ was writing to you – he told me he was."

"And why wasn't he?"

"I was under Imperius," Linus explained, his head bowed, not looking at either of them. "Turpentine had me writing letters to him every evening, updating him on our situation, and when people asked who I was writing to, I said, 'to my father.'"

"That is not an excuse."

"My brain was not entirely my own to command."

"Linus, you're the smartest wizard of your age, you could have resisted it—"

"Papa, anyone can be subject to Imperius, intelligence has nothing to do with it."

"You should have been able to resist it, and Calliope, why were you content to let your brother alone write to me? Why didn't you reach out to me yourself?"

"I – I was confused."

"Well, there we have it." Modeste poured more tea and added sugar. "Our family. Confused. Too confused to each speak to each other."

"It's not like _you_ were helpful," Linus said, looking into his teacup. In the silence that followed he knew his sister and father were staring at him. He went on, "I mean, the both of you, the minute Mum died and was in the ground, _you_ were gallivanting off to America, and _you_, Papa, voyaged away to France like you couldn't wait to leave England—"

"Linus!"

"—For the forty-five years of your marriage, you were just waiting to leave."

"_Mon fils_, you know why I left England. This country had far too many painful memories for me."

"Like there were none for me? Or for Calliope? You left, Papa, you left us when we needed you, and now you try to lord it over us, saying you're the victim? I don't buy it. Not for a minute."

"I'm not allowed to feel upset that my children – my flesh and blood – didn't even try to reach out to me when they were in crisis?"

"Not when you abandoned us in _our_ crisis, three years ago, _Dad_."

"Linus is right," Calliope said. "Papa, you and I, we both fled England as soon as we could. Maybe we're not good at being unhappy together."

"If either of you had said – had said even one word to me – I would have lived in England the rest of my life if you wanted me to." Modeste sat back in his chair, his green eyes over-bright. "But you never said…"

After a pause, Calliope gave a sardonic smile. "I heard somewhere… Happy families are all alike. Unhappy families are each unhappy in their own special way."

Modeste nodded thoughtfully. "A good quote, that."

No one said anything for a time, until Scurry came into clear away the dishes and then brought in three little apple tarts for dessert. Modeste took his. "Thank you, Scurry. I should say," he addressed his children, "that I _am_ very happy to see the two of you. Even if the circumstances are so… unpleasant. Calliope?"

"Yes?"

"Your name has been cropping up in… certain periodicals. May I ask if there is any truth to…"

"No."

"No, I may not ask, or no…"

"No, there is no truth to them."

"Are you sure?" Modeste glanced over at Linus for confirmation. Linus only shrugged with a defiant "_don't ask me_" look on his face.

"Oh, yes, Papa, because you know _me_ and of course I would toss my private life all over the front page."

"True. So, that man who was injured, he is a friend of yours?"

After a pause, she replied, "Yes."

"So why didn't you want to see him?"

She folded her arms and looked away. "Oh – we should have time apart. You know."

"She blames herself for his injuries," Linus said. "Which is stupid, because Turpentine was the one who caused your spell to break…"

"You've said that before, Linus. It's not like Turpentine _knew_ about the spell in the first place. And he wouldn't have been hurt if it weren't for me, and that's the beginning and end of it."

"This moping about the issue and avoiding him isn't going to help at all."

"Linus, when are you going to learn not to meddle in my life?"

"You're only just learning what I've known since I started my training as an Obliviator. You're acting like you're the first person to realize that magic and Muggle just aren't equal. It's not racism, it's the truth. There's no such thing as a level playing field – and you can't ignore that, and Mark can't just wish that away."

Calliope just stared at him for a long moment, and then turned away. She turned her entire body away from him, hugging herself. The gloom in the air was almost palpable.

"I'm just saying…" Linus said slowly.

"I know." Her voice was barely audible. After a pause, she stood up. "I'm going to… what's the word… turn in. Good night, Linus. _Bonne nuit_, Papa."

Just before she walked out the door, her brother blurted out, "And by the way, I might kind of have a girlfriend."

With an almost audible snap, the two other people turned to look at him. Calliope stopped in her tracks.

Linus nodded at their incredulous faces. "Yeah. Recent development."

Calliope narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe you."

"_What_?"

"That's a bit unlike you, to spring a girlfriend on us out of nowhere," Modeste observed.

"Why would I lie?"

Calliope just shrugged. Modeste said, "Well, you _do_ work for an institution whose motto is 'To deceive with style.'"

"That is not our motto at all!"

"It's a good one, though, you have to admit that. All right, Linus. Tell me about this girl, and I'll decide if she's a lie or not."

"I'm still turning in," Calliope said. "I think I know who this girl is."

She gave one last glance to the two men, taking tea with a far more lively air than before. Linus caught her eye, and gave a quick, surreptitious wink before she left.

* * *

><p>AN: Calliope is quoting Leo Tolstoy, the opening line of _Anna Karenina_.


	34. Grace From Paradoxes

Grace From Paradoxes

A/N: Two more chapters and an epilogue after this one. I swear. I can't believe it's gone on this long, to be honest. I'll have more words for when the curtain finally drops – in the meantime, thanks again for sticking by this story as long as you have.

**Hijokugei**, the parts with the werewolf kids are for you. I'm sorry that I couldn't write more about them – that's just not where the story lay.

As always, enjoy.

ooooo

Januarius leaned his weight against the sill of his window. The cold air leaked into his bedroom, and he felt it keenly on his bare arms. He knelt on his bed, looking out into the east, where the sun's light was just permeating the cloud cover. His glasses lay on the bedside table. So the world, to him, was a collection of blurs and daubs, like a new painting in oils that awaited the master's hand to come and set the exact details.

Januarius was thinking, and thinking. His thoughts were clearer than they had been since that day at the pub – but still scattered. Much of his past was strange to him now, scenes all starring a dark, glowering figure full of righteousness that he didn't recognize. But he didn't recognize himself at this moment, either, nor his own thoughts. The thoughts of the person he had been still lingered, countered not by logic but by the basic, grounding sense that, as sure as gravity pulled him down and his spine hurt day by day, magic was not the mark of an elected soul, and 'Muggle' and 'wizard' were merely labels, nothing more.

Everything he'd thought he knew about the world was wrong.

Without looking, he pressed his thumb lightly along the scars seamed in his wrist. He'd tried to evade this knowledge one way… and God had pulled him back from the course of self-destruction. He should have known better. No, the path before him was the more difficult one by far. To learn, day by day, what this new world was before him. To piece together what had once been clear and coherent and unbreakable, in a better form.

His eyes were starting to bother him. He wanted his glasses back. He closed his eyes instead and pressed his palms to his forehead. He had a world of paradoxes waiting for him.

Abruptly, he remembered hearing somewhere that the cross in itself represents a paradox – the meeting of heaven and earth. But that paradox can continue on forever and ever, to the ends of the earth, unlike a sweetly sensible circle, which can only chase itself and never grow any greater. Paradoxes, and wonder, are where true grace is found.

Where had that idea come from?

That would make a nice quest, to find out.

Januarius would have a long path of paradoxes to walk, and an unsure mind to use, but he was sure it was the right path. With this surety, he reached over, picked up his glasses, and put them on.

The dew glimmered on the tree outside his window. Every leaf reached out to the sun. Outside and around him was a network of houses, a spiderweb of civilization. Everything he saw was holy.

He glanced at his alarm clock. It was already time to get up.

Still, he felt very light as he got out of bed, and put on clean, fresh robes and his ministerial collar. It would, he felt, be a good day.

In fact, it was the day of Mark Printzen's final trial.

ooo

Mark had never been wheelchair-bound before. Quite apart from the weaknesses in his arms, his torso, and the constant pain in his legs, it was embarrassing to be unable to so much as lift himself from his bed to his chair without help. The group of Americans provided him five nurses on hand to get him anything he wanted – including Andrew's father, Terence, who actually _had_ been a nurse back in the day. But Andrew was the only one who seemed to understand why Mark wanted as little help as possible, even if it meant starting each day strained and frustrated before breakfast. He refused to let limited mobility (or pain) get in the way of spending hour after hour in meetings with Ceridwen Brynach and a Junior Undersecretary of the Muggle Relations Office, trying to haggle out the exact fate of the Agnes Stidolph School. Eventually he managed to get it recognized – tentatively – by both the Muggle and magical governments. The one saw it as a school for children with special psychological needs, the other as a rehabilitation house for young werewolves. And all of his students were cleared to return to their parents, or legal guardians.

All was tentative, but to Mark, it was worth it, even when Terence Dupont told him disapprovingly that he'd just extended his convalescing time by at least a week with all of the stress.

Early on the morning of his trial, Mark's parents invited him out for a walk in Kensington Gardens. A very light snow had fallen, and in the early sunlight the park was a beautiful tableau of white and black and green.

At first Mark was afraid of what his parents would say to him when they were alone, outside, without the Duponts to overhear. He was afraid that he would have grown to hate the city of London and all it had done to him and to them. But he was wrong. The joy that his parents took as they wheeled him around – joking that it was back to the stroller days, talking about all the books they'd read set in the Gardens, how beautiful it was – their talk lifted Mark's spirits reminded him of his old self, and of the fact that he'd _had _an adventure – that was something to be proud of.

They returned to the Embassy and helped Mark to dress in his Sunday best. And while Fritz and Terence argued over whether it was tacky to choose Mark's tie to match his wheelchair upholstery (a rather faded red velvet), Mark tried to help someone else get dressed, to pay it forward. But after the fifth time he dropped Andrew's cufflinks, he gave up. His hands were shaking too hard.

A car from the Ministry was waiting for them outside of the gates. The Ambassador's son, and his chief aide, drove with them to the heart of London. Around St. Paul's the car turned into a sudden underground tunnel, and suddenly they were in the Ministry of Magic.

They got out, and were escorted to Level Nine. A crowd had already begun to gather in the vast corridor, all tiled in glossy black.

Mark's mother pressed a hand on his shoulder. "Um – how about Fritz and I go up and save seats for the four of us? Would that be okay, hun?"

"Fine, that'd be fine, go on," Mark assured her.

The Printzens had only been gone for a minute before a security wizard tapped Andrew sharply on the shoulder. "Pardon me, sir, but is this your party?" He gestured to the Duponts. Andrew answered yes, and asked if there was a problem. It turned out that Terence and Pat stuck out as Muggles, and needed to show their Clearance Cards or risk being escorted off of the premises.

Andrew gripped a handle of Mark's wheelchair and twisted his hand, like he was imagining throttling a neck. "Mark," he said, "I really hate to leave you, but… my parents…"

"I understand. It's fine, bro. I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay." Andrew looked relieved, and so did his parents. "We'll be back in a sec, promise."

"I'm not going anywhere," Mark said again, as the three people were led away from the crowd.

He leaned back and tried to people-watch. That was fairly easy: people were everywhere; milling up and down, talking to each other, and avoiding looking at him directly. He kept hearing snatches of words like "reaped what he's sown." He'd read the _Daily Prophet_, disseminating the rumor that his stolen magic had backfired and almost killed him. But no one seemed to want to talk to him. Well. That suited _him_ fine. He braced the arms of his wheelchair. Could he – perhaps – lift—

A terrific pain shot through his legs and he fell back, his chair rolling slightly. Okay. The answer to that was 'no.' He massaged his legs until the pain subsided to its usual throbbing ache, and cursed under his breath.

"Is everything all right?" said a near voice.

Mark looked up, startled. A very old bearded man had appeared next to him. His bright blue eyes were surveying him through half-moon spectacles with interest and sympathy, but not pity or disgust.

"I – I'm fine, I apologize for my language. My leg's just acting up."

But the man didn't seem to mind the language. Despite the white beard and spectacles, he did not look – entirely – respectable. "Ah. I take it this is a recent injury?"

"Yeah. But the pain isn't what's bothering me. I'd like to stand before the tribunal, if I could… I'm the one on trial, y'see. Mark Printzen. I'm sure you've heard."

"I have, in fact. I am Albus Dumbledore." The man extended a hand, and Mark shook it. "Perhaps you've heard of me?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Name rings a bell," he admitted, "but nothing's coming up."

"Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Oh! A Headmaster! Have you ever been a teacher?"

"But of course, for many years. Truth be told, I rather miss it."

"I teach, myself."

"What age?"

"Elementary. I'm trained to teach five through thirteen year olds." Mark felt as if he were talking about someone else, from a distant past. "But lately I've been leading the Agnes Stidolph School for Werewolves."

"An entirely admirable institution. I meant to visit it, but my schedule is fairly crowded."

"I imagine."

"And today the teacher is on trial?"

"Yes… for…"

"I know what for. I've been following your career in the papers."

"Have you?" Mark began to wish he knew more about Mr. Dumbledore.

"Yes. Muggle-wizard relations is a topic of great personal interest to me. The Ministry needs a scapegoat, and rather than pursue the difficult and frightening culprits, they try to rally public support by picking an easy target, playing on the fears that are the groundwork of our entire society. I don't blame you for wishing that you might stand up before them."

Mark only nodded.

After a pause, Dumbledore said, "I do believe it was Victor Hugo who said, 'Sitting down or standing up; on such things are the fate of empires decided.'"

"_Les Miserables_, right?"

"Yes. Perhaps you would be interested…" From an inner pocket in his robe the wizard drew forth a walking-stick, handsome mahogany topped with silver. He handed it to Mark. "At my age, one never knows when infirmity will strike. But I am feeling quite hale today, and so feel no qualms about loaning it to you. Would you care to take it?"

"Is this a phoenix?" Mark asked, inspecting the silver head.

"Very sharp." Mark guessed it was exactly the right height for him. He peered up at Dumbledore. Even for a wizard, that was – very good. He braced himself, one hand on the cane. Dumbledore took the other.

He lifted himself. The cane restored his balance, and lessened the pain in his legs. For a minute, Mark could stand.

He sank back into his wheelchair with a groan, but smiled.

"You should save your strength," Dumbledore counseled. "You don't know who might testify."

"I'll be careful. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

"What subject did you teach?"

"Transfiguration. And I still offer a seminar on alchemy from time to time."

"Wow. Just… wow. Teaching little wizards and witches must be extraordinary."

"No more extraordinary than any other child," said the older man with a smile.

"Yeah, that's true. I wish…" He looked down the corridor, where more people were streaming in by the minute, "I wish I could be sure that my students would be all right. I just want to see them reunited with their parents… not that that will solve everything."

"It won't," Dumbledore agreed. "Being a teacher requires mastering the art of letting go. A teacher acknowledges that all of the potential of a child can only be guided by that very child. One can only hope that what you have taught them is enough – that it will do. But, Mr. Printzen," his voice, which had begun to sound distant and abstracted, became clear again, "Though you may lack abilities in magic, you possess a far more powerful gift. You have inspired courage in your students to give the world, which has battered and hurt them, a second chance. That is not worthless, is it, Mr. Printzen?"

Mark stared at the man, hardly able to absorb what he'd heard. At length, he asked, "Do you – tell everyone you meet – like, what a wonderful person they are? Do you make a habit of this?"

"Only for my students, Mr. Potter."

"What?"

"Printzen!" Dumbledore laughed, looking a bit self-conscious. "I meant Printzen, _do_ forgive me. Ah, the judges are congregating a little early, it seems. I should join them. You will excuse me. I hope we may have a chance to chat later."

"Yes… Of course." Mark watched the old wizard walk away, and then looked at the cane in his hands. It was a _very_ nice cane.

Presently the Duponts and Andrew returned, to tell him they'd found worked out the situation, for now, and was he all right, and where did he get that cane?

"Just a very surprising encounter," Mark told them.

"Are you sure it's entirely safe?" Pat asked. Behind her, Mark's parents came into view.

"I'm pretty sure."

"Who gave it to you?" asked Andrew.

ooo

The Ollivander-Samara family, plus Hector, was entering the corridor. Modeste chided his daughter about her choice of a predominantly black wardrobe, while Calliope tried to convince him that it didn't matter; "No one is going to be looking at me anyway, Papa, this testimony is not a fashion show – oh!"

She stopped. So did the men of the group. Ten paces ahead of them were Andrew, his parents, Mark's parents, and Mark, in a wheelchair.

"Well, this is charming," Hector said, his voice falling flat.

Calliope and Mark stared at each other, until he looked away, at her father. Hector made the introductions. Calliope continued to study Mark. His face was still scarred, and he looked well, but nothing like the robust young man she'd said good-bye to in Boston. He glanced only briefly at her.

Well. She looked down. She supposed she deserved that. But a sense told her someone else was looking at her – Mark's mother, she saw, was glaring at her with unmasked suspicion. "Oh, Hello," she stammered.

"You're looking much better, Mark, glad to see you doing so well," that was Linus.

"Sort of… I still can't really walk, as you can see. But I'm feeling a lot better. Thanks."

Above him, his mother said "Hello" to Calliope. Her eyes said, "So _you're_ the one who tried her level best to kill my little baby, _after_ you broke his heart. The minute you and I are alone, I am going to put the fear of God into you if you never –"

Calliope almost didn't hear Mark say her name. She started as he asked for her again. "Would you mind talking to me, a minute – um – aside?"

"Of course not."

His face and voice betrayed no emotion. He began to wheel away. "I won't be long."

Calliope followed, her hands clenching, unsure if she should reach for the handle of the wheelchair. "Do you need me – to—"

"No, thanks. I can get by fine."

So they left their families and found a small conference room, with a few chairs around a table. Calliope took a chair and sat down, so she and Mark could see eye to eye.

"Are you all right? Should I get you anything—"

"No, I'm fine. Really. Let me just look at you. This is the first time I've seen you since I woke up from that coma." Slowly, he added, "They told me that you stayed by my bedside, constantly, until just before I woke up. Is that true?"

"Yes." She waited for him to ask the obvious next question, but instead:

"Is it also true that you kissed me?"

"_What_?"

"Right before you turned me into a tree. I _think_ that you kissed me. Did you?"

"I did," she answered, feeling herself going beet-red.

He leaned back in his chair with a barely repressed smile. "I really, really hoped that was true."

She nodded. "Yes – it proved my statement that every time we touch, one of us gets hurt."

She waited for him to deny it, but he didn't. He just shrugged. "I think it's weird that I remember it so clearly, considering I was immediately thereafter turned into a tree. And that same spell is –"

"What nearly killed you."

"By accident."

"Yes, by accident." She saw where this was going, and tried to quench the despair that greeted the idea.

"I've had," he moved closer to her, maneuvering with care, "a lot of time to think while convalescing – is that a word?"

"Yes, I think."

"I'm glad – not that 'convalescing' is a word, but that I was able to think. I understand now a lot better than I did before."

She nodded. She thought of all the time in the last few months – time she'd just let slip by. If only she could have one moment of it back, change everything –

"I understand that, even outside of the political, social stigma – the fact that you and I have both been assaulted for being near each other – even if none of that existed, to love a witch is a dangerous thing."

"I guess it is."

"But I – now I've weighed all the risks, and I understand them." He sounded like he was wrapping up.

She wanted to beat him to it, so she wouldn't hear him actually say it – "Of course, then, it makes perfect sense. We'll just, go on, the way we have – I mean, we know how we both feel, but why act on it, when we're agreed it's better for all concerned to just go on, er, being friends – nothing – awkward – at – all – what are you –"

In one moment he leaned forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It started off gentle, waiting, hesitant; a hovering pressure that neither of them was certain of. Then she leaned in, deepening the kiss, surprised at how much she _wanted _this, how much she wanted the touch of his lips, his hand keeping her close, the way that his breath hitched. They had so much lost time to catch up on – and Mark's complete, intense focus on her, while remaining so tender, made her think he was burning this into his memory – she almost felt dizzy, like at the edge of a precipice and she wasn't afraid.

It was over, too suddenly, and Mark was smiling at her in a radiant, slightly dopey way.

He said, "You misunderstand me."

Calliope was still recovering. "D-_do_ I?"

Mark looked straight into her eyes. "I've weighed the risks, and I accept them. The only thing I'm not willing to risk losing is you. I love you – and love is always a hazard." Then he said, bewildered, "Are you – crying?"

"No," she said in a choked voice, still looking straight at him, "I'm not crying, I don't cry. Mark, I'm not – I'm not – are you _sure_ about me, Mark?"

"Yes, I _am_ sure, and yes, you _are_ worth it."

"You _lunatic_," she stammered, "you can't value me more than your health – your _life_ – you're an idiot—" she couldn't look at him; tears were running down her face and she was wiping them away just as fast.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… don't cry. Just… just tell me you love me."

She leaned her forehead against his, and her breathing steadied. "Mark. I love you."

He smiled. "Thank you."

They kissed again, and were silent for a long while before Calliope finally said, "We should get back."

Slowly she stood up, and then tried to set his hair aright. It had somehow gotten very mussed up. He watched her, and as she finished said, "There aren't words… Sorry."

"Aren't words for what?"

"I could try and spend all day – all month – trying to tell you what you are to me, and… it would fall flat."

"Save your words for yourself. We'll… resume this… later." She took the handles of his wheelchair and they pushed out into the corridor.

Andrew met them there. "What took you so – never mind." He gave a sudden, mischievous smile. "Calliope, your family went on in already."

"I'll go find them. I'll see you inside." she met Mark's eyes, and knew that they were both as clear as crystal to anyone around them. But she didn't care.

She entered the courtroom floor. Once inside, she looked around for a place to stand. Her eye was caught by the absurd and familiar figure of a small, middle-aged woman perched against a wall. She was looking around with some agitation, dressed all in mourning.

She seemed to sense Calliope's eye on her, and turned. Calliope Ollivander and Blodwen Rowle locked eyes, much as they had on the night that the one had escaped from the house of the other.

To Calliope's surprise, Thorfinn Rowle's wife gave her a little wave. Calliope thought for a moment that she would come closer and say something, but she didn't. The woman just gave a tiny, rueful smile, and mouthed something, and then hurried up the stairs to take a place in the stands.

Calliope looked around. No one else had noticed anything. No one else probably suspected that the birdlike woman squeezing in between two wizards, leaving a seat for her husband, was the wife of a Death Eater.

But for a strange instant, Calliope was sure that the woman had mouthed "_Good luck_" to her.

ooo

Fritz and Jane settled into seats that they had reserved by way of hat, scarf, and jacket, right on the edge of the courtroom floor. Two other men were already settled nearby.

The one closer to them nodded cordially as they sat down. Something about him seemed slightly off, despite his politeness. Jane whispered to her husband, "I feel like I _should_ recognize him… but I _don't_." Fritz nodded agreement. Meanwhile, Pat and Terence settled in on the other side of Fritz.

Then again… the man sitting on Jane's other side wore a normal suit and tie, and not the outer robes of a wizard. "Pardon me," Jane ventured, "But – are you a Muggle?"

The man looked at her, and again she felt that prickle of denied recognition. "Is it that obvious?"

"Oh, it's fine," she gestured to her husband and the Duponts. "All four of us are Muggles, too."

"Well! We've got ourselves a nice little box seat, don't we?" the man smiled, nodded to the others, and he and his companion (a black man, also dressed like a Muggle, but who seemed far more comfortable in the magical setting) went back to waiting for the trial to start.

ooo

On the one side of the courtroom sat Circe Goshawk, Proteus Troup, and Tisiphone, wearing the slate grey robes of the Sycorax.

Calliope stood next to Andrew and Mark on the courtroom floor, and avoided looking at her cousin.

Percy Weasley checked his watch. All the judges, witnesses, and sundry were present, and the trial had still three minutes left to start. He glanced up to Dolores Umbridge. "Well, we can begin a bit ahead of schedule – what do you say? It will probably run late, after all—"

Umbridge gave a little sniffling cough. "We'll adhere exactly to the schedule, Weasley, so that at least we may impress on the Muggle what decent, _civilized_ behavior looks…"

She stopped abruptly. She had been gazing idly at one of the courtroom doors, and a strange spectacle appeared at them. She recognized her young cousin and aide, Julietta Fell. _Former_ aide, who had handed in her notice of immediate resignation some days ago. Julietta was looking quite well put-together, and was standing shoulder to shoulder with a taller, rather fierce-looking young woman. The two only took in the situation of the courtroom for about a minute before they entered jauntily. And then –

Two by two, children invaded the courtroom. Some had scarred faces, or walked with limps; all looked around them with bold curiosity. They remained in pairs, but inveigled themselves into the few empty spaces in the courtroom, sitting on the stairwells if they had to.

"What do the badges on their shirts read?" Umbridge asked Weasley.

Weasley adjusted his glasses. "Um… I think it says 'Agnes Stidolph School,' and then it changes and says – 'Power to Mr. Printzen.'"

Throughout this entire scene, Mark Printzen had swiveled around in his chair to look at his students entering. Each one said, "Hello, Mr. Printzen," or "Lookin' good, Mr. Printzen," or, in the case of one rather tactless teenager, "I was told you _died_."

He greeted each and every one of them with an expression of delight and astonishment. Finally the procession ended, with the once-respectable Reverend Fell bringing up the rear. He greeted Mark, Andrew, and Calliope soundlessly, and then took the last available seat in the courtroom.

For a tense moment, none of the judges moved or spoke. Finally, when Minister of Rufus Scrimgeour shot Umbridge a look that clearly said "_You brought me here away from my _extremely_ busy schedule, you had better damn well make my time worth while_, she cleared her throat.

"_Hem hem. _Will all but the accused please leave the courtroom floor?" After a pause, "_All_ save the accused."

This remark was directed at Calliope, who took out her wand and conjured up a chair (upholstered mahogany), to take her seat next to Andrew, in the Chair of Chains, (Andrew's father muttered, "Look at him… our son, in chains… it makes me sick. We never should have sent him to the Salem Institute…") and Mark, in his wheelchair.

"If it pleases the court, I'll remain here," Calliope said, sitting down.

"And why would you do that, Miss Ollivander?" asked Eliezar Smith.

"So that there is no mistake regarding with whom I stand."

Mutters broke out in the audience. Where a gaggle of Mark's students sat together, spurious applause broke out. Smith said, "Please elaborate."

"I want to make it clear that Mark never forced himself on me, nor did he attempt to steal magic. If Mark had been born with magic, I am sure he would be a credit to the name of wizardry." She smiled at him, and his smile back was surprised and it warm, "but as it is, giving magic or stealing it is impossible. I am content, then, and proud, to call him my friend."

Umbridge sniffed. "Well, then." In a theatrical aside to Rufus Scrimgeour, "I suppose she must be humored. Proceed." Scrimgeour called the court to order.

"Witness for the defense, Mark Emory Printzen."

Mark braced himself on his cane and got to his feet. He gave his testimony standing up.

First, and most blatantly, he was made to publicly renounce the things that "he" had said during the previous court, as if the fact that Proteus Troup had publicly confessed to identity theft was not enough. Mark was also able to give more precise information on Joey Reed and the congenital heart defect that had killed him. From there he accurately related his activities from the attack on the Agnes Stidolph School onward, admitting that there were many things he did not know for certain.

When he described meeting Mr. Ollivander, someone in the crowd cried "Really? He's alive?"

Suddenly the entire audience wanted to know more about the old wandmaker. Umbridge had to cry "Order in the court!" to make them settle. But even she dabbed a bit at her eyes with a flimsy lace handkerchief.

"While I don't deny," she began, "that hearing tell of the wandmaker is very interesting, pray finish your story in as few words as possible."

Mark complied, speeding through to Calliope's arrival and their breakout, and its disastrous consequences for him. His memories of the rest were disjointed and not exactly suited for public record. Incredible pain – a numbing and song – a crossing of water in darkness – Calliope's voice, the last rites, and the choice to sleep – then he woke up and was in St. Mungo's. He yielded the remainder of his time.

She took the floor, her face very pale, standing tall and straight. When Umbridge asked "What is the nature of your and Mr. Printzen's relationship?"

"I already told you. He is my friend. Mr. Andrew Dupont introduced us, back when I first moved to Boston. We—"

"All right, as you say. To the best of your ability, then, tell us of your interactions with Turpin Rowle."

Calliope fixed Umbridge with her pale stare. "I will tell to the best of my ability, Miss Umbridge, because my mind is perfectly well and sound and you need not imply otherwise. I had only heard of Turpin Rowle in passing, when my brother mentioned him in letters. I never would have dreamed of contacting him, certainly not in an emergency. There are many others that I trust. I first met him on the day that he staged a one-man invasion of Hollywyck… But I learned of his activities beforehand, because he was trying to erase the memory of my sister from the minds of all who knew her."

From there her tale unfolded. She backtracked to cover her choice to leave America immediately, her awkward parting from Mark, and the car accident brought on by Mark's erratic driving and Calliope's ignorance of American traffic laws. How, when she found Linus again, they put together the plot of Benedicte's erasure, and the unprovoked Dementor attack.

And then she told about Turpentine's abduction of her, and her captivity alongside her uncle. Then she was alone, and Turpentine's experiments grew more cruel, culminating in the Spectre of Soul. She described the spell to erase Benedicte as well as she could, and the subsequent vestigial presence of Benedicte in her mind. Step by step she took her listeners through the next few months, through the Black Otter and Agnes Stidolph attacks, to the Ministry, to Bindweed Hall. She only omitted her meeting with Benedicte, saying that Tisiphone had told Calliope during their fight where the Death Eaters were keeping Mark.

And when the words "Bindweed Hall" were mentioned, one Wizengamot judge and several members of the audience reacted visibly.

"But the Matins—"

"A very old established family…"

"I thought they'd shut up the country house?"

Calliope waited for them to talk themselves off. Her description was taking much longer than she'd expected. But finally she came to the end, with her escape from Bindweed Hall and her uncle's insistence on staying behind to fight Turpin Rowle, and their flight to a safe house, Renee Ferndean's home, "provided by the Order of the Phoenix."

These words, too, kindled a reaction: whispers and doubtful _hmms_.

Pius Thicknesse went so far as to lean over the bench to say, "You trust the _Order_, Miss? Or have you forgotten the role they played in your sister's death?"

"I have not forgotten. I know now that Benjy Fenwick was trying to save Benedicte when he lost his own life. Having found her body alongside traces of Mr. Fenwick's, the crime scene analysts have ascertained that they were together until almost the last. So my mother believed, years ago. My family is in debt to the Order. And to the centaurs, too," she added. "For protecting myself and my friends."

"Indebted to centaurs?" Another judge chuckled, while Umbridge went deathly pale.

"Have you finished your story at last?" she asked.

Calliope took a sip of water before she answered deliberately, "Yes, your honor. I have."

Silence followed her pronouncement.

Umbridge waved a hand. "What a fascinating story, but it only corroborates with the Muggle's testimony. We'll need a witness who is less obviously biased."

Linus, in the stands, raised a hand. "If I may make a suggestion? Dr. Renée Ferndean, of Yorkshire, and her assistant, Sudhir… I didn't actually get his last name… they can both back up what my sister has said."

"And they're both Muggles." Pius Thicknesse glared at Linus. "Please. One Muggle's testimony in the court is enough."

"But Dr. Ferndean has prepared a statement," Linus started, but Thicknesse's gavel drowned out his protest.

"The court calls Turpin Rowle to the stand."

Calliope sat up straight, looking to the door of the courtroom. There was enough time for people to shuffle in their seats and look around to the various doorways. Eliezar Smith raised his voice. "Turpin Jonathan Rowle! Will someone go and collect him?"

But Turpin did not enter. A man in black stood up in one of the stands. "I am Thorfinn Alexander Rowle. I will speak for my brother." He cleared his throat. "I apologize for my lateness. I had… certain essential duties to attend to."

"Mr. Rowle," said a judge, "We have required the presence of your brother, Turpin."

Thorfinn descended to the floor before answering. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes limned in red. "My brother is dead."

A shockwave passed through the spectators. Calliope kept silent, but her eyes widened.

The black-robed man went on, "His body was discovered in the garden of Bindweed Hall, the very evening that Miss Ollivander admits to have infiltrated the house. The murder weapon… it was not a wand."

"Was it a Muggle weapon?" asked a judge.

"If Muggles have devised a way to kill with garden herbs, perhaps. But I think I know what it was. We found, twisted around my brother's neck, a circlet of basil leaves, withered and dead. That was the murder weapon, via Weatherwax magic." He turned to Calliope, ignoring the judge's questions. "I do believe that _you_, Miss Ollivander, are practiced in Weatherwax magic, are you not?"

Her gaze was level and steely. "I am."

"And you _admit_ to having snuck into Bindweed Hall on Halloween night."

"Yes. I did. But," and she had to raise her voice to be heard, the whispers were getting _very_ nasty now, "I have no idea how he died. The last time I saw him, he was alive, _and_ I had my wand. I wouldn't need Weatherwax magic if I were to defend myself."

"What was the last that you heard of Turpin Rowle?"

"We were attempting to escape Bindweed Hall via the well – Mark was injured, we were moving as quickly as we could – and we heard Rowle in the garden, yelling to find me. Uncle Servaas said that he would deal with him."

"Do you suggest that your uncle, then, murdered my brother?" There was a very long pause. "I said, do you suggest that your uncle is a murderer?"

Very softly, "No."

"You keep saying that your uncle was at Bindweed Hall. There is no evidence whatsoever that Servaas Ollivander ever set foot in the place. If he was truly there, and if you were actually able to sneak in and 'rescue' the Muggle and Reverend Fell, where is your uncle, who by all accounts was a canny and capable wizard – more than can be said for either of your misters in distress?"

"Uncle Servaas knew that. He knew I was spent, he wouldn't let me go to fight Turpentine – Turpin Rowle – alone. And he knew that Mark was dying. So he urged me to go on without him."

"So you left your uncle behind?"

She fell silent. All of the spectators fell silent.

"You said that you snuck into Bindweed Hall for the express purpose of rescuing him and the Muggle—and then you chose to save the Muggle, who endangered you multiple times – a _Muggle!_ – over your own uncle? Your own flesh and blood?"

"He told me to."

"Oh, of course, if he _told_ you that makes everything all right, how convenient that he would rather remain, apparently, in the custody of Death Eaters than risk freedom – did the old man go senile at the end, is that what you're implying?"

"No."

"That's assuming, of course, that there is any truth at all to your story – there's no evidence—"

"Of course there isn't, because you and your people covered it up!"

"_My_ people! What are you implying?"

"Death Eaters, sir, or have you not been paying attention? You are a Death Eater."

Calliope was aware that people were shouting around her, but she only heard Thorfinn's surprised whisper, "You brazen hussy." When the noise died down, Rufus Scrimgeour tapped his gavel.

"Miss Ollivander, leveling such an accusation at Mr. Rowle is an extremely loaded activity."

"I _know_. Sir."

"Mr. Rowle, it is no less grave to accuse either Miss Ollivander or her uncle _in absentia_ of murder."

"I know, sir."

"We all sympathize with your grief, Mr. Rowle, but ask you to restrain—"

"She broke into Bindweed Hall, she attacked her kinswoman, she flung away her own relations in favor of her Muggle toy! What about these actions demands restraint? My brother is dead!" he burst out. "And _she_ is responsible somehow! I know she is! Listen to her talk from before, she wanted him dead!"

"Thorfinn…" That had been his wife's voice, from the stands. She had spoken in an undertone, yet it had carried far. Thorfinn drew a hand across his face, and then gathered his breath to speak again.

"I don't ask for much. I'm a realistic man, a practical man. I understand that this _girl_—" he stood in front of Calliope, "Comes from a _very_ old, very established family, and that gives her certain perks outside of the law, yes? Whereas we Rowles – only two generations removed from the lower classes, let's be honest – I understand. Our rights are lesser."

People in the crowd, including the judges, shifted uneasily. He was addressing a truth of wizarding society, however ugly.

"Fine, then," Thorfinn went on. He lifted a finger as if to trace Calliope's jawline, (set in anger), but did not touch her. "Let this girl live… unmolested. But…" He turned, and strode towards Mark. "This, her minion – this Muggle whose story changes every time he opens his mouth, who has clear designs on the world of which he is not a part – I want him torn away from her, as completely as possible. In memory of my brother," he smiled, technically, a jutting, unnatural rictus, "the gifted Obliviator, I ask that this Muggle's memory be purged, scoured entirely, of that witch who introduced him to this world. All his memories of _our_ world, and every last trace of _her_, must be utterly removed. Let him never," he stood in front of Mark, and stared down at him, "ever be capable of plotting against us again. This, and no less, is the blood-price for my brother."

Finished, he took a seat by the wall, his back bent, his face grey and old.

There was a breathless silence. Mark's chair squeaked as he struggled to stand up. Just as he was on his feet, Dolores Umbridge said, in a voice that carried throughout the room:

"It is fair."

Noise broke out. On the floor, Calliope repeated, "Blood price? _Blood price_? This is not the Dark Ages—"

Spectators talked loudly, hecklers offered their own opinion. The Agnes Stidolph students swore bloody murder, most eloquently. Amity, relishing the use of her voice, shouted, "Memory modification has never been, and shall never be, a method of punishment, you law-bending, word-twisting _snake!_" Linus concurred. Januarius raised his hand. "If I may make an objection… offer a bit of intelligence…?"

Mark was on his feet. He called Calliope's name and reached for her hand. She saw and took it, and they looked at each other, two points of silence in the cacophony.

In the midst of the noise, the men sitting next to the Printzens stood up. The Muggle one said something to the wizard, who nodded. Then Jane could focus on the non-magical man properly – she saw that he was tall, thin, and balding, with a beakish nose and a black umbrella. And she recognized him.

She tugged on her husband's sleeve. "Fritz – _Fritz,_" but he was trying to talk to the Duponts about memory modification rights as the two men descended to the courtroom floor.

Albus Dumbledore lifted his wand, and out of it erupted three firecrackers in red, white, and blue. Silence was restored, gradually. Dumbledore remained standing.

"If it pleases the court," he said, gesturing to the Muggle n the endge of the courtroom floor, "allow me to introduce a legal witness, Mr. Dennis Samuel Xavier Merchant."

"_Who_," Umbridge growled with impatience, "is _that?_"

The black wizard, Kingsley Shacklebolt, spoke in his resonant bass voice: "The Prime Minister of Muggles."

Mark stared. For the rest of his life, when he remembered this moment, he could have sworn the spectators behind the Minister stood up, as a choir, to sing "_Hail Britannia_" in exultation.

_Hail Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!_

_Britain never, never, never shall be slaves!_

But in reality, there was no music, only shocked muttering, as the very average-looking Minister took the floor. He smiled at Mark. "Please be seated."

Mark and Calliope, glancing at each other and wishing for a chance to make a run for it, both sat down.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't attend any earlier trials. Really, my schedule has been absolute hell. I've been following this case, though, very closely. I find it interests me very much, involving, as it does, not only our ally the United States, but that tricky issue of Muggle-Wizard relations, which I know far less than half as well as I would like. If I may…" he turned around, and looked at Mark.

"Mr. Printzen – no, remain seated – or stand, if you wish – are you a Muggle or a wizard?"

"A Muggle."

"Have you ever tried to steal magic, or succeeded in the same?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you. That will be all." The Prime Minister turned back to the judges. "Well, that clears _that_ up, if I'm not mistaken. Oh – " he turned around. "I forgot, what do you know about the death of Turpin Rowle?"

"Only what I've just heard, sir. You can ask Dr. Renée Ferndean, of Yorkshire, I think. She'll tell you, as will Calliope Ollivander, Reverend Januarius Fell, and Linus Ollivander… and maybe a couple of other people… that at the time that Mr. Rowle died Calliope and I were together. Though, um, probably not in the same room. I was kind of… dying."

The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows.

"I got better."

"All right. Well, it seems to me entirely uncalled for to punish Mr. Printzen so drastically for something in which he was not involved."

"_Hem, hem_." Umbridge coughed. "How can you come to such glib, such hasty conclusions, Mr. _Merchant_?"

"I trust him," was the answer. "He is innocent until proven guilty, is he not?"

"He _has_ been found guilty. You are bypassing our laws!"

"And _you_ have not?" He suddenly grew fierce. "I have followed this trial diligently, and I have witnessed a most flagrant violation of trial by jury. His own testimony has been trampled on, twisted, ignored, and outright fabricated to suit the whims of the court. A trumped-up charge – an invented melodrama to suit your fantasies – you even discredit witnesses you don't want with the appellation 'insane,' just 'insane,' which has not been an acceptable mental health diagnosis for seventy years. Seventy? Someone look that up. This court – this trial – is a mockery. It displays the worst of your courts. I know," he added, "I recognize much of it in my own government. And the threepenny opera here is received with applause. This is how you treat a powerless scapegoat – not even a U.K. citizen – to assure yourselves, in a time of war, that you are in the right. Well…" he looked for an instant like he had a very biting remark on the tip of his tongue, but thought better of it. He sighed. "It was my intention in coming here today—"

"To slander our laws, our courts, to our faces?" Umbridge shrieked.

"No," answered the Prime Minister. "That's merely a bonus. My intention was to remove Mr. Printzen – and, if possible. Mr. Dupont – from this court and begin his transition to the wizarding courts of the United States. If the 'facts' you have yielded from this abhorrent examination process are correct, then Mr. Printzen and Mr. Dupont's crimes originate in the United States. They should, therefore, be tried at home. I have come to reclaim them for their home country, and to end, right now, their United Kingdom tribunal."

"All in favor?" Dumbledore called as soon as the Prime Minister had finished. "Show of hands." He raised his left hand first. Slowly, as if stunned, other judges began to raise their hands, Eliezar Smith being the first. It was a majority.

"All opposed?"

Fewer hands shot into the air, including the twinkly tacky rings of Umbridge.

"All abstaining?" One hand.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Then it is settled. The cases of Mr. Dupont and Mr. Printzen are no longer the concern of the Wizengamot. They will be escorted to the United States as soon as possible. Court dismissed."

"That's _it_?" Calliope heard, and realized she herself had spoken. "All these months – and that it's just over?"

The Prime Minister – Mr. Merchant – turned to her. "I apologize for the abruptness. I swear, this was the only time I could work an intervention into my schedule. Shacklebolt!"

The black wizard was at his side at once. "Yes?"

"Send a couple of your people to take care of the paperwork. And on the Muggle side of things, let's treat these defendants in style. Them and their families, get them a good dinner – on my tab – someplace nice. Like the Sportsman."

"That's in Canterbury, sir," Shacklebolt observed.

"_Like_ the Sportsman, I said. Maybe I can join them," he added hopefully. He then shook Calliope's hand, and Andrew's, and lastly Mark's.

"I'm truly, truly sorry for all you've been put through," he said to his fellow Muggle. "I've had little truck with these folk, but enough to have an idea – Christ, you must have been miserable."

"Could be worse," Mark answered.

"No, but I mean really, Mr. Printzen, if the reports are true, then you have been arrested twice, jailed, a runaway, and found guilty of the first case of Presumption in two hundred years. You then were impersonated, kidnapped, tortured, and… turned into a tree? You have been accused of seducing a witch, stealing her magic, and of single-handedly driving a man of God insane. Succinctly, you have become the subject of a massive international incident." The Prime Minister looked frankly impressed. "Quite an achievement."

Mark nodded, very slowly. "Best vacation of my life."


	35. Departures

Departures

A/N: Just as a little warning, this chapter gets a bit suggestive later on.

As always, please enjoy, and feel free to leave a review.

ooo

The trial having ended, the radio was switched off. Wormtail had been on radio duty, and he hefted the portable Wizarding Wireless as he stood up.

"Hope you enjoyed it, Mr. Ollivander sir," he said, tugging a nonexistent forelock. Mr. Ollivander made no indication of his enjoyment one way or the other. Wormtail trudged upstairs, to Malfoy Manor.

Servaas' Ollivanders thoughts were distant from the truth, almost random. He couldn't help but keep thinking of Turpin Rowle, Turpentine.

'_I killed him. I killed him. I killed a man. My soul is rent. Rent indeed, I might as well rent it to the devil himself. What have I become? I killed him, when he was only ever courteous to me and…_'

'_Stop_.' Servaas slapped his own wrist, hard. The little sound carried in the dungeon. "He tortured me," he said aloud. "He stole memories from me – as cruel as to steal away a child. He tortured Calliope. If I hadn't killed him then, then it would have been capture for Calliope and the others... I did what I judged to be right at the time; I was _still_ right. He was a Death Eater.

"But," he said in a calmer tone (it would not do to start arguing with himself, down here – he might start losing to himself), "I have brought a possible sentence down on Calliope and her man… A terrible sentence. And if this sentence should come to pass… how could I ever look her in the face again?"

He brought his hands under his chin, and then took them away – he was still convinced he smelled basil. For the rest of his life, basil would make him feel sick to his stomach.

"I must release these thoughts," he said softly. "I must release these thoughts. I did what I thought was right at the crucial moment… I saved their lives. And even the very wise cannot see all ends."

Then, walking through the memories of that night again, he chuckled to himself. Well, if she ever worked out what he had meant by "Leap, knave; jump, whore," she could have a way out of her new predicament ready-made.

Still… it was going to be a long, long stay in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

Servaas Ollivander sat in the shadows, and waited.

ooo

As Mark, Andrew, and their parents were leaving the courtroom, to escape the paparazzi at the Embassy, a familiar voice hailed them in the crowd. "Mark! Mark!"

Mark turned. "Oh! Julietta! Jan! Hello… what are you…"

Julietta was tugging her brother through the crowd. "Do you mind if we… er…"

"Tag along?" her brother prompted. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Printzen. I'm your son's brother."

Mark cleared his throat. "Um… Jan… those are Andrew's parents."

"Oh, are they? My sincerest apologies, Mr. and Mrs. Dupont. Mr. and Mrs. Printzen! A pleasure. May I?" He took the handles of Mark's wheelchair and led their procession while Julietta salvaged his introduction.

"So, how are you doing?" Januarius asked Mark.

Mark considered. "Is it bad if I kind of want to punch the Prime Minister in the face?"

"You're not British, so no."

"Okay. But I don't really want to. I'm too – I'm just too tired to give a damn anymore. I'm just glad it's over."

"Well, one should never want to give damns at all, but I can't blame you for being peeved. I think that whole thing about how you must forget Calliope – sit up straight, no use slouching – was a bit excessive. Not to mention illegal."

He turned around to look up at the other man. "What?"

"I mean, technically, you and Calliope are already married."

"_WHAT_?" Mark cried so loudly that several people turned around to look. Including (though he didn't see her at the time) Calliope.

"Oh, yes," Januarius went on blithely. "Don't you remember what Mr. Ollivander said as you jumped down the well?"

"I was kind of in free-fall at the time…"

"Well, I heard him say clearly, 'Leap, knave, jump, whore…'"

"Geez, I thought I made a better impression on him than _that_."

"'… be married now forever more.' It's a very old marriage rite. And falling into water, nice way to tie the knot, so to speak."

"But… but…"

"I know, he rather botched it, but what do you expect of a layperson? No offense."

"But… but there were no witnesses!"

"_I_ witnessed it," Januarius sounded a bit hurt.

"But I was practically unconscious! Neither of us consented!"

"Well, maybe Mr. Ollivander has a rather _insistent_ approach to matchmaking. Hello, Calliope."

She fell into step alongside them, her family following behind. "Hello… Mark, is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," Januarius informed her. "I was just discussing your rather hurried nuptials, the legitimacy of which Mark seems to not recognize…"

"Nuptials? You mean –" At once she grew pale, and glanced around nervously. "Reverend, I'd thank you not to mention that to anyone else. Please."

Januarius grew rather offended. "Well, if you want to keep it under wraps, by all means, you pretend you didn't…" he trailed off. "Pardon me a minute." He abandoned Mark's wheelchair and took off at once to his right.

Looking after him with a slightly worried glare, Calliope took Mark's wheelchair handles. "Do you still think I did the right thing, rescuing him?"

"Oh, of course. But he's just kind of eerily friendly now. Where's he gone?"

Calliope stood on tiptoe, then fell back onto her heels. "He's trying to talk to my cousin."

"Where's she?"

"Being escorted somewhere else, with Proteus and Circe. Januarius can't catch up with them. He's coming back here now." Calliope turned her face away, and didn't mention Tisiphone again.

ooo

The two young women and one young man were whisked to a separate, private trial shortly after the Minister of Muggles closed down the first court. Before a small tribunal, the three confessed to conspiring with Death Eaters, impersonating and being accomplices to impersonation, perjury, calumny, and hiccupping in a loud and annoying manner. All three rolled up the sleeves of their left forearms and showed the small, black-and-white snake tattoo there – the prelude to the Dark Mark.

The three young people were charged guilty, and sentenced to twenty years in Azkaban, without parole. Circe Goshawk got fifteen years, for having been merely a conspirator.

They were led each into a special Floo Network fire which lit up the moment any person stepped into it, and automatically sent them to a small pub in a town called John O'Groats.

John O'Groats, the northernmost point of the main island of the United Kingdom, was the location of Balor's Wharf. A boat of steel rocked in the water, waiting for the tide to turn before it would set sail for the North Sea. Meanwhile no magic could be performed on-board except the spells for a swift journey out and a swifter journey home. Before the tide turned, the boat's passengers-to-be waited in a secure room above the pub (the Goose and Handcuff), which had been serving "one last good pint" to wizarding criminals for over seven centuries.

Tisiphone Gibbs, heavily wrapped in black and grey, stared out the window at the boat. Her eyes reflected the stormy grey of the sky and the heavy iron of the sea. In front of the fire Circe and Proteus snuggled together. Rain pelted the window.

The door opened, and Tisiphone heard someone wearing high-heeled boots enter the room. She turned. And stared.

A tall, middle-aged woman hung up her cloak and her matching hat on the rack by the door. She looked around, pressing the rain out of her shoulder-length hair, which was still more chestnut-colored than grey. "Ah. There you are."

She walked over, her heels clicking loudly on the bare wooden floor. Tisiphone watched her approach with a stony face. She stopped.

"Hello, Tisiphone."

"Hello, Mum."

Phoebe Gibbs, _née _Ollivander, levitated a chair over to sit opposite her daughter. When she was seated, Tisiphone said, "Well, go on. Say what you have to say. And you don't have to insinuate anything. Go on." She didn't care. There was nothing they could do to her anymore.

"I don't have anything to insinuate. Why aren't you sitting by the fire?"

"So I want to look out the window. Is there a law against that?"

"I just don't want you to catch cold. Are you well bundled up?"

"_Yes_, Mother." Tisiphone looked out the window, scowling.

"I was just asking."

"I suppose Hector's told you everything."

Phoebe sat up in her chair and straightened her purse on her lap. "He told me a lot. Is there anything you think he may have left out?"

"Did he tell you he's a homosexual now?" Tisiphone gave a twisted smile at her mother's visible shock. "Guess he didn't."

"I will ask him about that when the time is right. And Tisiphone, I thought that you had better stuff in you than to tell tales."

"What do I care? It's true, he's a homosexual. I swear I'm telling the truth."

"It doesn't change a thing about what _you_ have done."

"I'm just saying."

Phoebe said nothing. She simply looked at her daughter. Tisiphone felt her eyes on her, her gaze piercing and scrutinizing. At length her mother said, said, "Are you offering that fact as an excuse for what you did, young lady? Do you expect that idea about your brother to eclipse the fact that you are now waiting to board the same boat and occupy the same jail as your father's murderers? Do you think to _distract_ me?"

"No, Mum, no –" Tess looked down, pulled her long hair over her shoulder, and began to toy with it. "You just said he told you everything. I wondered how complete it was." Eventually Phoebe dropped her gaze. She idly looked through her purse. Tisiphone eyed the purse. Phoebe saw her looking.

"Is there anything you want?"

Around and around Tess wound her hair, tugged it, released it. "Mum – you remember how –" it was too silly to say in front of the others in the room, but Phoebe was listening and she had to go on –"how you'd keep clips of my and Hector's hair, snips of it on our birthdays, until we went to Hogwarts? Remember the haircuts you gave us?"

"Yes."

"Could you cut my hair now? I mean, it's so long – and I'm really proud of it, but it's so much to take care of –"

"And you don't want to see it get all dirty and matted. I understand. I was a bit worried about it myself." Phoebe stood up again, primly taking comb and spare ribbon out of her purse and handing them to her daughter. She loosened Tisiphone's hair, combed it quickly but not painfully, and began to braid it from a ponytail. "I suppose it'll go in my memory box." When the braid was finished she asked for the scissors, adding, "Let's see – your hair is now all the way to your hips. And forgive me if I cut you, dear heart."

Her scissors had just grazed her ear, but Tess didn't mind – it took all her willpower to keep from crying. Of course the words "dear heart" were pure habit, of course her mother only slipped into them and regretted them even now. And the fact that Phoebe's hand had slipped did not mean her fingers were shaking.

Snip. Snip. The silver sound of the blades curled on the air.

Before long Phoebe said "There. Done." She ran a hand over her daughter's shorn head. "Turn around. There we are. Hm. You look rather like that little boy in that play we saw once – what was it? The one Benedicte was in. Go on, look at it in the mirror."

The mirror was tiny, half-destroyed with spots, and almost lost on the wall where it hung. Tisiphone looked at herself in it obediently, then walked back. "It looks very nice. Thank you."

Phoebe nodded, content with her own handiwork.

After a pause, Tisiphone said, "You – you don't have to stay, you know."

She looked up at her daughter. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mum, I did wrong by you, by Father, by everyone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry to disappoint you so much. But it's okay. It won't be long before—well, before I'm no longer your concern. You don't have to stay. I'll be all right."

Phoebe shook her head. "Tisiphone. Honestly. Where did you get the idea that I was going to let my only daughter go to Azkaban alone?"

Tisiphone swallowed hard. Pride kept her from saying anything lest all words break loose, but Phoebe understood.

She sat opposite her daughter and rubbed her hands to warm her up. And when the tide turned and the prisoners were called aboard, Phoebe stayed next to Tisiphone, silent, but there, as the steel boat left Balor's Wharf and plunged north, away from the homeland, toward Azkaban.

ooo

At Linus' flat, Calliope was ready to go out to the posh Muggle restaurant that the other Minister – she couldn't help it, that was how she thought of him – had reserved for them. Analytically, she knew that she looked very lovely, and that she _wanted _that, she wanted to leave a good last impression on Mark. But something kept eating at her, driving her to get up and pace, run her fingers through her hair and hum off-key.

Finally she went to the fireplace, took a fistful of her brother's Floo powder, and flung it into the fireplace. When the flames were a safe emerald green she stuck her head into the firebox. She called out the number on Sow-Whet Street – Dora's Hogsmeade flat, whose fire was password-protected.

The living room flickered into view, blurred a little by smoke. It was empty, but when Calliope called her friend's name, Dora's voice answered from another room. Dora hurried in, bumping against the sofa and kneeling in front of the fire. "What is it? Is it an emergency? You look nice."

"Oh – thanks. It's not an emergency, sorry, I just – I need advice. Did you hear the trial today?"

Dora nodded. "Shacklebolt's a friend of mine. Very proud of him, and you."

"Thanks. You know that Mark's…"

"Leaving."

"Tomorrow. I'm – we're all going out to dinner, my family, Andrew's, and his. Hector – I know Hector is planning on going back to the Embassy, to spend the night. With Andrew."

Dora nodded slowly. One side of her mouth tugged up. "You want to join them?"

"Yes – yes, that wasn't meant to be so loud, but, I'm scared, Dora. I mean, his parents will be there, and—"

"So will Andrew's. I'm sure they'll understand."

"His mum scares me, a little."

"Do you know how many boyfriends were scared by _my _Mum?"

"Yes, but… but, Dora…" She paused so long that Dora added a little extra Floo to the fire.

"You want to be with him," she prompted.

"Yes… but… I'm scared." The last word was scarcely louder than the crackle of the fire. "I'm spending the night. And I'm scared – we might go too far, or – it might go badly… and then that'll be the last time I see him."

"Callie, this could be the last time _we_ see each other –"

"Don't say that."

"Both of us with rug burns on our knees and cricks in our necks, you wearing lipstick and me in my PJ's. But you weren't scared to see _me_. Listen. I've never seen you like this over a guy. Look at the risks you've taken for him already. Bindweed Hall, young lady. Need I say more? What, what I'm trying to say is, you'll regret losing time with him more than you will sharing it." She gave a sad smile, and Calliope realized that her friend was _lonely_. It was embarrassing, to have only noticed after all this time. "Do I make any sense?"

"Yes, you do, Dora – thank you." She heard the bathroom door close on her end, and talking in French. "Oh, I hear my brother – thank you so much."

"Don't be afraid, you'll know when the time is right, and you'll just knock him off his feet."

As Calliope backed out of the green fire she chuckled. "Way ahead of you."

ooo

Be in bed by midnight. There's a long flight tomorrow.

No drinking, Mark. You have no idea how that might clash with your medicines. Do you _want_ to risk a reaction the night before you leave?

Bars? Which do we choose, Muggle or magical? The last thing we want is more publicity in the magical scene. Do we really want to spend the night yelling at each other over the ambient noise? And what are the good Muggle bars in London? Does anybody know?

Go to a movie? What movies are even out? And how do you know one is even worth seeing? For that matter, when was the last time any of us saw a Muggle newspaper?

These were not the restrictions or judgments passed by the parents of Andrew and Mark, or Calliope's father. This was what Calliope and Hector, and Andrew and Mark, concluded themselves. They were no longer students, fresh out of dormitories and eager to break curfews. Their energies had been taxed, their spirits drained, by the past few months. And a war was looming on the horizon. The last war had lasted eleven years. The waters of the Atlantic were wide. All these facts together meant that no one wanted their last memories of each other to be hazy or lost.

Besides, every time someone mentioned going to a bar, Andrew began to hum "In the port of Amsterdam" and it was _really_ getting on Mark's nerves.

So, after the very nice dinner on behalf of the Prime Minister, the four of them made a sneaky getaway. Or at least, they imagined that they did. Around the block from the Embassy was a dance hall. The four went there, and knocked back one drink apiece (nonalcoholic for Mark). Then they went dancing.

Hector had, for various reasons that he did not like to recount, tried going out with girls. He hadn't enjoyed it, and was pretty sure the young ladies didn't either. Now, things were different. Tomorrow he would start life as a gay, single wizard, with all that meant in a society quite firmly entrenched in the nineteenth century. But tonight he was happy to have the best-looking man in the joint on his arm.

As for Calliope and Mark, neither of them had so much as a moment's practice in the fine art of wheelchair dancing. However, that did not stop them in the slightest. As a matter of fact, they cut a wide swath on the dance floor around themselves.

Andrew kept glancing at the clock, but no one else did. They judged it was time to go home when Mark and Calliope weren't dancing, but sat nearly on top of each other in a dark corner, their arms around one another.

In the Embassy, all was quiet. No one stopped them as they went up to their old suite, at a respectable distance from their parents (though Hector wasn't sure the distance was really respectable enough).

Andrew helped Mark undress, like he had seen his father do, down to boxers and nightshirt. Mark let himself be helped, but said in a discomfited sort of way, "You could have used a spell for that, you know."

"I know," Andrew said. Gently he lifted Mark up from the chair and dropped him on the bed.

"_Ow. _That could have been gentler."

"Gentle? I didn't know you wanted _gentle_." He turned to the door. "You be the judge."

Calliope, who had been waiting awkwardly in the doorway, poked her head in. "Judge what?"

Andrew gestured to the steadily-more-annoyed Mark on the bed. "Does he want 'gentle,' do you think?"

"You two should move in together," she said by way of reply.

"Sorry?" Mark asked.

"I mean, Mark will need someone to take care of him – and now there's nothing that Andrew has to hide."

"I hope." Mark gave the other man a pointed look.

Andrew shrugged. "Looks good to me."

"I agree, but, it's the middle of the night and we're emotionally fraught. We'll talk about it later. I'll see you in the morning, Andrew."

"I'll see you." Andrew bowed himself out, to meet with Hector.

When Andrew was gone, Calliope lifted her wand briefly to dim the lights. Mark let out a breath. "Whew… Okay." He looked up at Calliope, his face uncertain, but full of expectant emotion. "Are you still… I mean, are we still sure? Still… still… oh god…"

She was undressing, and folding up her clothes, and laying them on a chair, blissfully unaware of how she was distracting him. "I'm not leaving you tonight."

She turned to him, her grey eyes taking in everything about him, as though she would memorize him. She then crossed to him, and knelt beside him on the bed. She frowned, concentrating on his legs.

"Yes, I know, they're ugly," Mark said, coloring. Of all the times, of all the time in his whole history, to be crippled… he stared at his legs, lined with the scars of his gashes and wounds.

"Does this hurt?" Calliope asked, pressing lightly on one of his knees.

"A little… But they always hurt, my legs, I mean, I don't mind. I don't mind, really. Help me with this shirt, please."

She helped him pull off the shirt, and discovered, in the meantime, that Mark was ticklish. In retaliation, he struck back, expertly finding her weak spot until they were both convulsing and stifling their laughter. Eventually they declared truce. Undeterred by the tickle war, Calliope kept perusing Mark's body, tracing lightly over his torso. She touched all of the scars she had made. She started to mutter under her breath, "I did this, I did this, I did these…"

"Calliope, stop. Stop it. Look at me, right now." He held her gaze, and took her hands in his own. "I don't hold what happened against you. Truly. Tonight, I'm – I'm amazed that you even want me… please, I survived, and I just want you to be happy tonight."

She leaned against him, and kissed him. "You are a good person. You're _such_ a good person."

She began to gently rub the back of his neck. Mark gave a little shiver. "Keep doing that. Please. Play me…" He stopped abruptly.

"Play you what?" She sat up, leaning her forehead against his.

"I was going to say 'play me like a cello,' but I thought that might sound weird."

She laughed, and began to say in a sultry manner, "Oh, I'll do you one better than a… wow, that did sound weird. Maybe we should…"

"Yeah. Maybe we should."

She guided his hands to her.

ooo

It was still dark out when the two families, Dupont and Printzen, were all ready to go, bags packed, out on the sidewalk. It had snowed the night before, just enough to make packing suitcases into taxis look vaguely romantic and Christmassy. The yawns were multitudinous.

Standing by were Calliope and Hector, feeling distinctly purpose-less by comparison. The American Ambassador came to see them off, stifling his own yawn as his son provided complimentary coffee.

"Your hospitality has been tremendous. Thank you," Jane Printzen told him. "We'll always be grateful."

Mark, still wheel-chair bound, steered himself to a conference aside with the Ambassador. "Your Grace, you were the liaison to introduce me to the Agnes Stidolph School. I hate to leave you with a favor, but I have to ask… well, if you don't mind…"

"If it is at all within my power," the Ambassador kindly interrupted, "I will see to it that the students are reunited with their families. I promise."

"Thank you, sir. Um…" as Mark faltered, his father stepped in.

"Any time you're in the Boston area, just give us a call, anytime, we'll have you over for dinner. Thanksgiving, even… just give a little advanced warning."

The word Thanksgiving, pleasant and homely as it was, only seemed to upbraid the youths of the loss of time.

Outside a taxicab waited for them, specially built for handicapped accessibility. While Andrew's father snapped a few photographs, the Embassy bellhops loaded up the taxi. Destination: Heathrow Airport.

At the last, Calliope took Mark aside on one part of the sidewalk, and Andrew and Hector took another.

Hector was pale and taut in the dawn's early light. "Well… I'm sorry, again, for all the trouble I've gotten you into."

Andrew's face broke into a grin. "Funny, I was about to say the same thing." He took Hector's gloveless hands and kissed them. "You deserve to be happy. You deserve people who will make you happy. Don't forget me, Hector."

"Never." His voice was choked. "I could never forget you, Andrew – love." The word slipped from him, brittle in the cold air. In response, Andrew kissed him, gently, once.

Calliope knelt on the pavement. "I'll write you often," she said, between rubbing his fingers to warmth and kissing him, shyly, on his nose or forehead. "We'll make this work."

Mark nodded. "I guess this is really it."

"Yeah…"

"Hey… let me know how that family emergency works out."

She tried to smile. "Good luck with that teaching post."

He lifted his fingers to her cheekbone, holding their faces together. "I will wait for you. No matter how long it takes – just stay safe. For the love of God, come back to me."

"This isn't the end," she said abruptly. "We _will_ have mornings – plenty of them – when it's the two of us, getting ready, going out to do our separate things. And we'll part every morning _knowing_ that we'll see each other again at the end of the day. I _promise_ you that, Mark. So we're not going to treat this like it's anything other than an ordinary day, an ordinary good-bye, all right?"

He was beaming, even through the pain in his eyes. "God, I love you. Okay, then. Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again. I love you." She kissed him one last time.

Calliope and Hector stood on the pavement and watched Andrew help Mark into the taxi. The door shut. The taxi drove away, to be lost in the river of anonymous Muggle automobiles. Dawn was just breaking. It was very cold.

Alone in front of the Embassy, Calliope turned to her cousin. "Fancy a visit to the shop?"

"Sure."

ooo

The snow on Diagon Alley would soon be swept away by traffic, but for the moment, it was a pleasant sight to see the white carpet on the ground, with black cobblestones poking through. The wand shop's front was still boarded up. The cousins wound their way to the back door.

While Hector shuffled through the keys on his belt, Calliope told him, "Services for Benedicte will be on Saturday. We'd love for you to be there."

"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world." He inserted the key into the lock and opened it with a grunt. The back room, with its desk for accounts, its towering records and files, opened to them. "Jesus, it's cold in here. Light a fire, will you please?"

As Calliope did so, Hector quickly checked the cupboards to make sure nothing had taken up residency. He then headed upstairs to make sure that all was well.

Calliope sat alone, tending the little stove, hearing Hector shuffle around upstairs. Carefully, she stretched out her left hand and laid it on the desk. The wood responded to the gentle query of her magic. In her minds' eye she saw flickers of many fires like these, many hands like hers, soft voices, talks of war, duties, day-by-day life.

When Calliope drew her hand away, as Hector entered, she fancied she could almost hear Benedicte's laughter, her warm affection in the life she had here.

"Eight o'clock and all's well," Hector said as he entered. He put on the kettle for tea. "So, you know, I've thought for a long time… maybe I won't be Gibbs anymore. I'm thinking of maybe going as Hector Ollivander. I mean, the shop's got the name, everyone knows the shop… and sometimes the family's just clung to the name, despite, you know, a brood of daughters, or illegitimate sons, or… I don't know. The name endures. So I was thinking of that. Not that it matters." He gave a weak grin to his companion. "Not like I'm going to be starting my own branch of the family tree or anything like that."

He turned his head away. Calliope just stared ahead, into the fire, retreating back to her state of distance and coldness, and observing herself retreating, and observing her own observation, and good god, it might be eleven years before she saw him again.

Then she shook herself out of these morbid thoughts. She saw Hector again. His shoulders were shaking, and he wiped furiously at his face. Calliope crossed an arm over his shoulders, holding him close until the worst of it was over.

ooo

First class was very nice.

Neither Mark nor Andrew had ever had the opportunity to fly first class before. Leg room, wine selection, good pretzels, top-notch entertainment – they had the works. The two young men were each asleep in the space of fifteen minutes. Two hours later, they woke up with plenty of flight time left ahead of them.

Mark, sitting up in front with his special handicapped accessible space, stared out of his window in a sort of doze, remembering and wondering.

A tap on his shoulder jolted him awake again. Andrew grinned next to him. "Hey. Wanna know a secret?"

Mark's look must have been suspicious, because Andrew went on, "Something I've never told anyone else. Not even Hector. Not even my parents."

Mark still looked doubtful.

"Don't you want to know what my job _really_ is?"

"_Yes_," Mark answered at once, leaning forward.

"Okay. Now, technically—"

"Why do you want to tell me?"

"Because, that's what friends do. I want to let you in on it. Now technically, like Muggle CIA agents, I am supposed to _not_ tell anyone, ever. But I trust you."

"Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who said, 'Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead'?"

"Well, let's see, you almost died, and we'll count Joey Reed in on the conversation, so we're fine. Do you want to know or not?"

"I'm listening."

Andrew took out his wallet. He drew out a business card – his own – printed with a silver and gold emboss of an hourglass within a circle. "Know what this is a picture of?" Mark shook his head. "It's a Time-Turner – an extremely powerful, and very dangerous object. Use of them is tightly controlled by the United Nations, but I know that Britain, the United States, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and France at least all have a store of these for their special ops. Probably Japan does as well."

"How big is it, in real life?"

Andrew showed him, cupping his fingers. "Travel-sized for your convenience."

"And why is it so dangerous?"

"What it does, is…" Andrew leaned forward, to whisper right into Mark's ear, "It lets you travel backwards and forwards in time. The most basic models deliver hours. Stronger ones can do a day… weeks… months…"

"Years?"

"Research and Development is still fiddling with that one," Andrew leaned back, twitching the card in his fingers, making it vanish and reappear.

"Is that more magic?"

"This? Just sleight of hand. See?" Andrew showed him how the card vanished into his sleeve. "I can teach you, later."

"I'd like that."

"Now, if _you_ were the government of a paranoid First World country, and _you_ had objects that could do this, what would you do with them?"

Mark thought for about a second. "Prevent the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, hell, Robert Kennedy while we're at it, Abraham Lincoln. Get Anne Frank out of that secret annex. Make sure the Brontë sisters have clean running water. Interview with Shakespeare…"

"I was looking for an answer more about national security."

"I mentioned JFK. What, he doesn't count?"

"_Mark_."

"Okay. So. You use time travel to keep the homeland safe?"

"Yep."

"You… use time travel… to keep the homeland safe?"

"Yes."

"Holy… that would… that's… _wow_. Not just sci-fi?"

"Legit, man."

"There's a catch, though."

"Always a catch."

"Sworn to secrecy."

"Obviously. But that's normal, just ask any CIA operative. Or don't, they can get very smug about how much they're not allowed to tell you."

"What else?"

"Well… missions with my branch of the department tend to be a little complicated. And they tend to take quite a while to finish. Especially since most of the work involves going backwards. I'll… It'll look – to me – I'll be going about perfectly normal. Sure I'll be hop-scotching through time on all sorts of wacky adventures… But I'll still progress, forward, through time. But to you, it'll look like I'm just… getting old, fast. Old faster than wizards age, faster even than Muggles age. Heh…" he gave a halfhearted smile. "You should see your face."

"Why did you sign up for this?"

"Sign up? I was recruited! Do you know how high the standards are for recruitment in my division? It's an incredible honor – not to mention adventures, talk about sucking the marrow out of life. And all for a good cause."

"And here I thought you just took 'Carpe Diem' as an excuse to party."

"Not _just_ an excuse to party. But you can see why someone selected for this business would command a certain amount of clout in the Pentagram."

"And the Embassy, yeah. So you're not getting demoted?"

"Demoted, hell. My first assignment has been bumped up."

"You haven't gone on any assignments yet?"

"Sshh…" Andrew looked over at his parents. "Well. No."

"All that… all the strings you pulled… and you're just a greenhorn?"

"Not for long! I'm now signed up for the second-to-next mission, whatever _that_ is."

"That's a good thing?"

"Well…" Andrew leaned back. "I've been looking forward to this for years. Training. Prepping."

"Well. Will you be around for Christmas?"

"That, at least, I'm planning on."

Mark leaned away from Andrew and put on his headphones. He closed his eyes and imagined his apartment as he would find it: covered in dust, the answering machine stuffed to its mechanical gills, a world of responsibility awaiting him. And always, now, the threat of the war in England, of Calliope's fate, of his memory being searched and seized. But it would be okay. They had merely said goodbye.

ooo

The wand shop on Diagon Alley was always narrow. Linus remembered even as a child finding it narrow, the high ceilings reaching up into darkness, the piles and piles of the thin long boxes, all around. The only difference over the years had been the gradual movement of the boxes, and that as he'd gotten bigger it'd gotten harder to navigate.

He walked through the shelves, to the back, and up the stairs. There was the accounting room, door closed, but the door to the workshop was ajar. The light was on.

Linus pushed the door open. "Hector?"

Hector was sitting at the table, and a few moments after Linus had stepped into the workshop, he said "Come in," distractedly. He was bent over a long, raw rod of silver birch, and a carefully preserved dragon heartstring, delicate and taut. And a row of silver knives and a decanter of golden potion, a small vial of silver potion, and a red ceramic plate sat farther out in the table.

"Are you busy?" Linus asked.

"I'm just… getting into the mood. Getting ready to put this together. This wand."

"Would you happen to know where Calliope is?"

"You just missed her. Said she was going home to nap."

"Aha. Mind if I stay around?"

"Please. Do. But I may need…" he trailed off, his eyes darting from one heartstring to another.

"Quiet. I understand." Linus sat opposite him. "So this is a wand for…"

"For Januarius."

"I recognize the rod he was holding. I wondered where he got it." Hector didn't look at him, so Linus went on, "He said that Uncle gave it to him."

"Yes. That's what he said."

Silence. Linus thought, staring at the branch, '_Uncle held that. He held it recently. He chose it. He's alive; he's out there, somewhere. Imprisoned… like he was all the time that we were imprisoned, and never thinking of him_…' He asked out loud, "Where did the heartstring come from?"

"Hebridean Black. The last one we're going to get in a while. It's from the last batch that Tess brought in."

"_Oh_. Well…" Linus tried to be tactful. "Are you sure… are you sure they belong together?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Silver birch and dragon heartstring… odd combination."

"I know. But have you met Jan lately? He's an odd man."

He was now contemplating the knives, looking them over carefully as if trying to make a selection. After a long pause, Linus said, "For birch, I think you should use _this_ gouge." He carefully picked up the carving knife, the handle large and blade small. "Good wave to the metal – see? You want to employ more delicacy with this wood that's already been used as a wand. But, of course, what do I know? After all…" and he knew even as he said it, the next sentence would have more weight than he wanted, "You're the wandmaker."

No response, but Hector held out his hand. Linus put the knife's handle into his open palm. "Thanks."

Then it was time for quiet. Hector set to work.

Fist was the careful paring away, strip by strip, the raw bark. He revealed the pale sapwood, tip to tip. He worked with the grain, slowly and methodically. It took a while. All the time he sang under his breath – he worked through quite a few songs (Linus was surprised at his memory for lyrics). Most often he sang low and soft the song that Uncle used to sing, the song that all the Ollivander children had learned without ever realizing it:

"_Holly's growing across the door, Linden, oak, grow merry in time… And cedar makes the ceiling and floor, Myrtle means a true love of mine_."

Linus wanted to hum along, but didn't. He just watched.

"_Born in maple, your life will be long, Linden, oak, grow merry in time… Be sure to wear silver and hide behind rowan; Myrtle means a true love of mine_."

Then Hector shaped a very loose handle – more of a ring to show which end would _be_ the handle, and set the wood down. He sighed. Then glanced up at Linus. "Why are you still hanging around? Not to put too fine a point on it, but this isn't exactly exciting."

"I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable."

"It's not that. I'm just wondering _why_."

Linus hesitated for a long time before answering, and covered it by getting up to get a drink of water. When he returned (with two glasses) he finally said, "I'm sorry. I just… I felt that nostalgia, for the time when we would just sit here for hours watching Uncle and Grandfather carve out wand after wand… I missed being able to do that. But I really –" quick drink of water, "I wanted to tell you, I know what the new-old wand is now. It's…" Linus considered that Hector was in the middle of a very delicate magical operation, and decided he'd save the full revelation for a later date; "It's a healing wand. And it – it knows more about healing than I do. Not that that's hard. But – I used it to fix Mark."

"_You_ did that?" He looked disbelieving.

"Yeah," he said shortly. "But the wand – it's not good at much else, but it's very good at healing. But there's a cost."

"Always a cost."

"Yeah. You have to – _I_ have to – take the injury onto myself. At least in part."

"That's why you've been kind of –"

"Yes. It's taxing. But… it worked. It saved him. So it's all right. I can't quite get _why_, though. Why it chose me. Maybe it thought I needed… balance? I don't know. But, I should let you go back to work."

"Yeah. Thanks." But Hector sat at the table, in much the same attitude as he'd had when Linus had walked in. And he sat there so long that Linus asked, "What's wrong?"

"The heartstring."

"Well, it's good quality, right?"

"But…" And there was something in Hector's eyes, wider than they had to be, that Linus asked, "Are you okay?"

"What? Of course, I'm fine," he said quickly.

"You're really fine? With your sister, and Andrew, both go—"

"Will you shut up?" Hector's voice was sharp.

Linus answered, very quietly, "That's why I'm asking if you're okay."

"I will be okay. When I make this wand. It's something important – Jan needs a wand, right? Of course he does. And this is something … to do that's not sit around and think about Andrew and Tess. So I'm sitting down and I'm making this. But…" And Linus said nothing until Hector could work the words out himself, "But just when I sat down, and took out the heartstring, I realized… Tess brought this. She was going to give it to Uncle, but she's given it to me. And it's…" he took a deep breath, "When I use this, use up the last string, it'll be my last connection with her. I've cut myself off from her – and this heartstring is all that I have left."

"Ah." Linus didn't know what to say. After a long pause, he said softly, "I'm sorry."

When that didn't get a response, he considered saying, '_That heartstring has to be used sooner or later_, _Uncle would like that_,' or something similar, but a better instinct said to hold his tongue. So he did.

"What are the properties of birch again?" Hector asked.

"Um… if it has an element, it's water. If it has a color, it's white. According to the druids, it's the wood for November."

"Huh. Fitting."

"Yes. And… it's the wood of beginnings. Traditionally thought of as the first tree in any forest."

"Beginnings. Right."

"Technically the wood of the new year."

"Right." His empty hands made fists on the table. "Then why do I feel like things are coming to an end?"

Linus paused. "I want to say… because they are. But I don't know. That's the thing. I don't know if things are ending or only beginning. With the new-old wand… with Mark and Andrew… with the war… it isn't known. It can't be known."

"But there _are_ things coming to an end," Hector said, leaning on his hand.

"Well, yes. Neither of us will ever sit at this table and watch Uncle carve out a wand again… ever. "

"Yeah… I wish I had paid more attention."

"I think we all wish that," Linus said softly. "Paid more attention… given more thought… been more awake on Christmas morning. Take the time to look at the people around you, really _look_, before the moment when you _know_ you won't see them again. Because you don't know that moment. I…" he choked a bit, "I finished going over all of my memories of Benedicte, after I got them back. I'm stunned – I'm astounded – by how few there are. I just thought there was more there."

"You don't need a lot to be there, for there to be love," Hector muttered into his hand. He straightened up and picked up the heartstring. He held it carefully, studying the slight curve to it.

"Thank you, Tess." With those words, he put it down, and took up the knife…

And the wandmaker set to work.

ooo

On the eighth day of November, in the Year of our Lord 1996, Benedicte Ollivander was buried in the grounds at Hollywyck. Her tombstone, which bore a carved ankh above her name, was bright and clean among the sunken and mossy stones of the old family. Her mother had chosen the plot years and years ago, and now mother and daughter lay side by side in the cold earth.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, the painting of the Ollivander Children was restored to its rightful place behind the bronze curtain.

The ceremony had been very small – Linus, Modeste, Calliope; Debra, Quinn; Phoebe and Hector; Andromeda and Ted Tonks, and a few other friends – and short, in the pouring rain. Linus maintained the spell to deflect the downpour. Modeste gave a short, moving address on the life, death, and retrieval of his daughter, but had said little else for the entire day. Debra, her voice breaking, sang a short hymn. Calliope had thrown the first handful of dirt onto the grave.

When it was over, and the guests had gone home, the father, brother, and sister sat in the parlor of Hollywyck. Scurry had brewed them all rich hot chocolate. Ignoring the talk of the men, Calliope stared out the window, towards the grave.

When her father called her name she turned, as if waking from a trance. "What?"

"Come here. Sit with us." He reached out to her, and took her hand as she sat next to him on the couch. Linus was leaning on his other shoulder, still hiccupping with sobs. Modeste squeezed his daughter's hands, but Calliope wore the same abstracted stare she had before. "What are you thinking of?"

"I just…" She shook her head slightly, "I just kind of wish Mum was here, for this."

"Really?" Her father asked. "Well… I agree… I also wish _Benedicte_ was here for this."

Calliope started to laugh, a short giggle, and her father joined in, covering his mouth for his own bad joke. Even Linus started laughing. They were a strange sight, the three of them in deep mourning, laughing staccato through clenched teeth – anyone would have thought the three of them were sobbing.

And then, when Modeste and Linus' laughter died, Calliope _was_ sobbing.

She let her father and brother hug her, tell her it would be all right, offering what they could against her cries of "It's not fair – It's not fair."

She dried her tears. "I wish – I _truly_ wish – Uncle Servaas was here. Good God, what is with this family? Why are so many of us dead?"

Her father wiped away a tear. "That is the way our lives have been ordered. But we've got each other, at least."

ooo

It was an ordinary Sunday. Thunderstorms were predicted for the evening. Calliope had packed up all of her things. Her brother, even as he walked her out the door, asked, "Are you quite sure you don't want to stay?"

"No. But I've relied on your kindness long enough."

"Well…" he descended the steps and hugged her. "You know where to find me. You need anything, I'm here."

She smiled. "I know. Love you, brother."

"Love you, Shrimp." When she Disapparated, he returned inside, to prepare for his return to work the next day.

ooo

The streets sloped up and down under her feet. She towed her suitcase, cello case, violin case, satchel, umbrella, and, most definitely, her wand. The tall, black-haired woman briefly relished the sensation of being unconnected, untied, with nowhere to go, and no place to call her own.

Well – that was not quite true. She had buried Benedicte, but not the bond connecting them – not entirely. And somewhere, Uncle was out there, and she was connected to him, too. And to Dora, Linus, Fleur, Hector, Luna, Andrew, her father, her mother… and somewhere, across the ocean, to Mark.

She bowed her head and smiled. It was a blessing, really, to be knotted and tangled and bound to so many, in so many ties of love.

She walked on, the rain growing heavier by the minute, obscuring the path ahead of her.

ooo

There was a knock at the door of Dora Tonks' flat. Cautiously, the witch slid off of the couch and opened the door. "Why," she smiled slowly, "hello."

"Hello, Dora," Calliope answered. "Mind if I stay a while?"


	36. Ollivanders At War

Ollivanders At War

A/N: This is the chapter where my personal grievances with _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ come most to light. I won't apologize for my feelings about the book, but I will apologize if it comes off as heavy handed or bitter. Enjoy this chapter – and stay tuned for the epilogue!

There was a small tenement house, in a suburb. There was a car parked outside on the street, with an Embassy-approved driver at the wheel. Guadalupe Santos stood on the pavement, staring up at the house like she barely believed in it, like it was too sacred to approach.

She didn't have to approach it. The door opened in one side and a woman looked out at the teenaged girl on the sidewalk.

The woman gave a cry. She ran forward in her house slippers, slowing down as she neared the girl, studying her face to be sure it wasn't a dream, and then hugging her and thanking God, she would never let her go again.

And a man came out from the same door and at first hung back, as if doubting what he saw, and then he ran and joined his wife. And there would be long days ahead, and painful explanations, and tears and full moons. But in this moment, Guadalupe wept with joy.

War is an interesting catalyst.

There are so many moments of transition, of transformation, which contribute piece by piece to a complete alteration of the whole. For examples:

The streets of Hogsmeade were in turmoil. It was early June, 1997. Madame Rosmerta had been seen guiding Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore to Hogwarts Castle, only to be seen shortly afterwards screaming and running into her house.

Then the Dark Mark appeared over the school.

People pounded on Dora Tonks' door, looking to her to help, she was one of the Aurors in town, wasn't she? Someone all the townspeople knew and recognized. But Dora was out. Calliope was left, and she did her best to answer their demands.

She said, "There was a distress call three hours ago, there are reinforcements up at the school, no, I don't know what's happened, someone find Madame Rosmerta and calm her down, now—"

She parried off the demands and the fear for a long time, until Dora's face appeared at the back of the crowd. Calliope gasped with relief to see her, and parted the mass of people to run to her friend. It was by then almost midnight.

"Dora – the school – rumors have – is Dumbledore—is he?" Now that she was closer, Calliope could see that Dora was holding fast to the hand of Remus Lupin. But Dora reached out for Calliope's hand, and squeezed it, and nodded.

"He's dead," Calliope heard herself say. "Dumbledore is dead."

Dora nodded again. "And Bill – he met Greyback – and the school, Calliope, I never want to see the school attacked again…"

The two women clung to each other as they wept, oblivious to the crowd panicking and the war growing worse and worse around them.

ooo

While Calliope and Dora, in midsummer of 1997, were dancing at Bill and Fleur's wedding, Linus was clocking in another day with the Obliviators and Paramnesiacs' Division. He was filling out his usual paperwork when there was a rumbling, a distant noise like an explosion.

He sat up at once. After a pause, a voice came over the public announcement system: "_Lockdown, this is an emergency lockdown_—" before it was cut off.

Another explosion, from the same direction. It made up Linus' mind for him.

He got up, leaving the paperwork forever unfinished, and headed for the main foyer to the elevators. He passed office and cubicle as they were locked and shut from the inside. As he entered the foyer, paved in black and white marble, he saw a small paper missive fluttering and throwing itself against the elevator, trying to enter.

Linus, recognizing Kingsley Shacklebolt's brilliant blue stationery, pointed his wand. "_Accio_."

The paper arrived in his hand: he unfolded it and saw what looked like an elaborate lowercase 'h.' It was the glyph of Saturn, of lead, of destruction. Of the worst possible thing coming to pass.

Linus stared at the paper a moment. Then, the only present member of the Order of the Phoenix took action. He put his wand to his throat. "_Sonorus_." Then he _shouted_: "Please abandon lockdown mode. Evacuate immediately through emergency exists. I repeat, evacuate _immediately_."

A few hours later, after the dust had, literally, settled and the bodies were discreetly taken away, Linus was summoned from his flat to a severe reprimand from his new superiors. This reprimand was public; he was chosen as the first scapegoat to illustrate the new regime's principles. Chief among these was "You will not move, you will not escort a large body of employees, you will not _talk_ about moving, leaving, or evacuating, without approval from your supervisors. _Is that perfectly clear_? I don't care if a wall of _fire_ is descending upon you…"

And so on and so forth. Linus stared straight ahead as the man – Ministry-tested and Death Eater-approved – harangued on.

So the game had changed. Linus would just adapt with it. He would survive, and – he caught side of Amity's sandy blonde head in the crowd – everyone he could protect would survive, too. He would adapt to a role of Healer, with the Rod of Asclepius and his own growing expertise. He would adapt to a world of chaos and draconian rule, and survive.

As it happened, Linus _did_ survive. But at one point he owed his life directly to the strength and willpower of Januarius Fell, who carried him on his back more than two miles to a Muggle hospital. When Linus woke up and was astounded by the action, the reverend only said, "The debt has been repaid."

ooo

Januarius' radical preaching of brotherhood and equality made him and his sister prime targets. The _Daily _Prophet featured him on slow news days, with such headlines as, "Bible-Thumping Thumps Out Blasphemy," and "Religious Quack in Hot Water."

Januarius was thus left to preach in quiet pubs and Underground stations, in the basement of the Ollivander's shop in Diagon Alley, in all little pockets of the Resistance, with Julietta always beside him as altar server, lector, and Eucharistic Minister, as the situation demanded. She helped him to collect newspaper clippings, and names of the dead, Kissed, and disappeared from the Quibbler and radio broadcasts, to keep in intentions and prayers.

One particular clipping, from early in the summer, after the takeover of the Ministry, declared "Azkaban Prisoners Pardoned." Only Julietta knew that Januarius kept that clipping close his heart, in his own Tarot deck. Of the pictures of the pardoned, there was one small photograph of a gaunt woman with short, wavy dark hair. The caption read "_Tisiphone Gibbs Pardoned from Azkaban, to Join the Werewolf Partnership Team_."

So the months passed, until, just a few days before Christmas, Januarius and Julietta were forced to flee England.

It was during the Sunday Service, as Julietta was lighting the fourth candle in the Advent Wreath and Januarius was commencing the Prayer of the High Priestess. Suddenly the back door flew open with a bang.

Guadalupe Santos stood there, heavily bundled up against the chill. "You've got to get out of here. All of you. Out, out, _out!_"

The eight congregants obeyed, and the Fell siblings followed Guadalupe to a tiny diner overlooking the bleak west coast of Liverpool, where they sipped lukewarm coffee. After an hour, a woman with a long red scarf walked past the window. Guadalupe and the Fells got up and followed, ducking their heads against the winds.

The woman (whose face was deeply hooded and covered) walked on a meandering road to a cliffside. Set in the rock were narrow stairs, leading down to the waterfront where a boat with enchanted lanterns bobbed in the surf.

Guadalupe helped Julietta down the stairs, but Januarius' sight remained fixed on the woman whose red scarf was already losing color in the mists as she walked rapidly away.

Januarius pulled out his silver birch and dragon heartstring wand. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A pelican of silver soared out, ahead of the woman, stopping her in her tracks. She turned around when Januarius called "Tess!" and ran to her.

Tisiphone glared at him in fear, caught between his Patronus and him. "Jan, go back—"

But instead he took her face in his hands and kissed her, and held her close to say, "Tisiphone, never forget that all the worst sins of man's devising are, to the mercy of God, as a live coal thrown into the sea."

"Jan…" he had only heard her speak three syllables but he knew the tone in her voice, the tone of, "Januarius you have stopped making sense again."

He let her go but continued to look up into her eyes. "Peace be with you."

She pressed gloved hands on his arms. She pushed him away. He saw her mouth "And also with you."

His Patronus faded. He watched her pull out a silver Death Eater mask as she turned away. If he said anything else, the wind carried it away.

He turned back to the stair and the boat, and descended to the water. He let himself be carried across the ocean. He didn't look back.

ooo

Dolores Umbridge's revival of the Presumption verdict, almost Fury-like in its intention, had collapsed with the arrival of the Muggle Prime Minister. But when Pius Thicknesse came to power, suddenly the precedent of Presumption bore fruit. Strange fruit.

First it was the entirely reasonable demand that all wizards provide a birth certificate to prove their identity wherever they went. Then the Degrees of Descent Registry came into being, which very quickly morphed into the Muggle-Born Registry. With no Mr. Ollivander present to affirm that each wand was matched with its proper owner, the certainty that any Muggle-born witch or wizard had been born with the magic he or she claimed dissolved.

First the penalty for Presumption was imprisonment in the Sycorax. Then it became imprisonment in Azkaban. More and more liberally, the Dementor's Kiss was used. And soon people simply started to vanish – no paperwork necessary.

ooo

In response to the government's vanishing acts, people vanished under the radar of their own accord. Not that most wizards had any idea of what radar was – but all wizards were familiar with the notion of 'hiding.' Now they vanished, spiriting themselves to the Continent, or the States, or even, in one case, New Zealand. Amity Tweak, whose parents were both Muggle-born, voyaged to Iceland with her family. Guadalupe Santos' parents took an extended family visit to Catalan. And Januarius and Julietta fell took advantage of the Transitive Property of Family, which stated that:

Given: Mark is family (through Januarius, brothers by blood.)

Given: Mark's parents are family.

Therefore: It is perfectly polite to pay a surprise Christmas visit on _family_.

ooo

When Mark got the call that a plane was coming in, with two passengers that needed shelter, two that he personally knew, he let himself hope that one was Calliope, unhurt but ready to slough off the war and hide away with him in Massachusetts.

No such luck.

What he found instead were the two sleepless and jittery Fell siblings, freshly flown in from Ireland, and terrified of airplanes and airports.

On the long, awkward drive to Mark's parents house (where the only sound was the radio, crooning "_How'd you like to spend Christmas on Christmas Island? How'd you like to spend your holiday away across the sea_?"), Mark had time to wish some more for Calliope's presence beside him, humming along.

It was a long and quiet drive. But they arrived at last in the streets that Mark had grown up on, and Julietta stirred awake in the back seat. When they pulled up to the Printzens' house, the lights inside were on and the Christmas tree in the front window was all lit up. Julietta gave a gasp and hurried to open the door before the car had even stopped, and Januarius said, "It's beautiful," which were the first words he'd said since arriving in America.

And Mark, leading the way to the side door, let himself think that it would be a happy Christmas, after all.

ooo

Calliope spent Christmas Eve at Hollywyck, alone. Technically she was in hiding; publicly Linus and Hector had disowned her months ago, for her connections with the Order and Muggles were too well-known, and their reputations needed to be spared for as long as possible. Scurry had volunteered to stay with the shop, to help Hector protect and ward it.

So the big house, surrounded by forest, was empty and dark, except for the candles that Calliope lit. She burned the Yule log in the fireplace, thinking of her mother and her grandmother, and Benedicte, and the silence of the dark of the year.

But Christmas Day was a proper holiday. Christmas Day she passed with Dora and her family and Remus, and she led the singing. It wasn't perfect: The pudding burnt, for one thing. For another, there was a wreath of ill-feeling twining around Remus (not for his lycanthropy, but for the way he had abandoned Dora when she'd first announced her pregnancy, but it was nothing that couldn't be overlooked, not for Christmas.) And there were too many toasts to fallen friends. But for all that, Calliope remembered Dora and that last Christmas very, very dearly.

ooo

In the same low, dungeon room as Mr. Ollivander, Luna Lovegood welcomed Christmas morning by clawing at the walls. She sobbed and cursed and even shrieked at the door, "Let me go! Let me go! I have to go home! My daddy needs me! It's Christmas…" she sank against the door. "It's Christmas. This isn't right."

She started when Mr. Ollivander's cold hand touched her shoulder. She pushed his hand away at first. But it was a human touch, it was given kindly, and she reached for him. He hugged her like she was one of his own grand-nieces.

By the time the meager thread of sunlight that stretched into their cell was stronger, Luna had stopped crying. She sat up. Mr. Ollivander listened as she began to tell him about her family tradition, their wreath of candles, and the St. Lucia song that she recited. In return he told her about the Yule log, where one morsel of wood was saved from the fire's appetite for a year, until it kindled the next year's fire, continuing a magic so old it practically wasn't magic anymore. And as he talked, he wiped Luna's tears away.

ooo

While Mr. Ollivander and Luna Lovegood kept faith in the dungeon of Malfoy manor, the most secure stronghold of the Death Eaters, Hector and Scurry repaired the glass in the windows of the wand shop. Over the following months, he kept at least one lantern on at all times, as if saying to all spies and Snatchers, "Come and find me. I dare you."

He offered wand repairs. He held clandestine meetings for the Resistance, Order of the Phoenix-based and otherwise. He advised those who needed to keep up appearances on the best Muggle-hating persona to adopt – for example, Linus, who publicly cast off all connection with his sister, "Undesirable No. 187." Linus actually met with Hector quite regularly.

Linus had taken it on himself to see all the students of the Agnes Stidolph School – Mark's former students – safely in hiding, and away from the clutches of the Werewolf Partnership and its thugs, except for the stubborn ones like Guadalupe Santos who insisted on remaining in the thick of things. The list of people for Linus to trust narrowed as the months wore on. His Thicknesse-approved superiors grew more suspicious of him by the day. But he was holding up. He was adapting, surviving. He and Hector were going to be fine.

Until the day in mid-February when Calliope vanished off the map.

For thirteen days Calliope was held prisoner, on starvation rations, in Bindweed Hall. Bellatrix Lestrange promised her that, if she was very very _very_ good, with sugar on top, she might get to join her uncle before the end.

On the thirteenth day of her captivity, Calliope was brought to a parlor. A large table of mahogany – pockmarked and stained – stood in the center of the room. Bellatrix waited on the other side of it, smiling.

The Death Eater wasted no time. She strapped Calliope to the table on her back, her arms stretched out on either side. While Calliope struggled, more Death Eaters entered. Masked, they lined the walls.

"Welcome back to Bindweed Hall," Bellatrix told her. "You snuck in here once before… and you snuck your way out… my, but aren't you clever! Little Clever Miss here doesn't even _need_ a wand, does she? Oh, no – all she needs is her hands to break out of anywhere, isn't that so, Missy?"

Calliope said nothing.

"Well, if you answer my queries – you know which ones, right?"

Calliope said nothing.

"Regarding the protections surrounding the Minister of Muggles, and the protection of his family – which I _know_ you helped to establish, clever little thing you are, despite your vices – just answer my questions, and I'll let you walk right out of here with Weatherwax magic still perfectly in your power. If you're stubborn, though…"

She walked over to Calliope's limp right hand, and plucked the pinky finger up. She began to push it back, and back. "I'm just going to have to take reasonable precautions – do you know how many bones there are in your arms, Clever Miss? – to make sure you don't leave Bindweed Hall at all. _Ever_. What do you say?"

Calliope's gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling.

"I'm getting impatient, Missy."

"I have a suggestion for you. Go to Disneyland."

"What-land?"

"It's a bigshot Muggle resort. Out in California. Sunny place. Lots of music. It might calm you down."

Then Bellatrix got mad.

Four hours after Bellatrix was done with Calliope…

A door swung open. A door deep in the basement of Bindweed Hall, modified to prevent any spells from being spoken or any sounds escaping at all. A slit of light fell into the room, and Calliope appeared out of the shadows. She was lying halfway on her side, propped against the wall. Her arms – pale as paper, thin as quills, crooked like broken umbrellas – splayed out on either side of her. Her matted black hair covered half of her face, but she squinted up and blinked in the light.

Two women stood in the doorway. One came to Calliope's side and knelt. "It's Guadalupe. You remember me? I''m here."

The other woman closed the door.

Guadalupe brushed the hair out of Calliope's face, then gave her to drink from two thermoses she carried: one was cold water, the other was a creamy soup that was warm and heartening. Then, when Calliope was more awake than she really wanted to be, the other woman stepped forward and took off her Death Eater mask.

Tisiphone Gibbs looked into Calliope's eyes and said only, "I'm making good," before breaking off a strand of her cousin's hair. She added, "And I'm taking a leaf out of Barty Crouch Jr.'s book. You can figure it out later."

She took out two flasks and uncorked them. She dropped Calliope's hair into one flask, and a hair from her own head into the other. Then Guadalupe helped Calliope to drink the Polyjuice Potion as Tisiphone took the second dose. They transformed into each other – and both women screamed, Tisiphone as her arms broke and Calliope as her broken arms were reset with loud snaps. When Calliope was ready, wearing Tisiphone's form and clothes and odor, she was reluctant to leave her cousin behind.

"This is the best way." Tisiphone bit her lip as she jostled her arm. "Tell Hector and Mum that I'm sorry. Now, go."

Calliope didn't protest. She turned her face to the wall as Guadalupe choked out a short and earnest good-bye to Tisiphone, pressing a rosary into her hand. They left her there.

As they moved out of the dungeon, with Guadalupe supporting Calliope, the girl explained in a whisper that she, as a werewolf, had enlisted with other lycanthropes in the Werewolf Partnership. It was the best way to protect her family. But every werewolf needed a "handler," and Tisiphone had volunteered to be Guadalupe's. Their newest assignment was supposed to take them to the continent for a few days, and Guadalupe was going to join her parents in Spain. They had enough time to get Calliope back into safety, before… Guadalupe couldn't finish that thought.

The next thing that Calliope remembered clearly was the pain in her arms. She began to transform back into herself in a cramped and uneven corridor. But Guadalupe knocked on what looked like a random door and it swung open. Inside was a flat that Calliope knew. Dr. Ferndean had fled to South Africa to join her son, but she'd left her flat to be used by the Order at need. And Dora was there to welcome her.

ooo

At the end of all things, Dora was always waiting for her. Since falling pregnant Dora had become less physically active in the resistance and the Order. But to make up for it, she read up on strategy and became the Order's to-go tactician, with Calliope always at her side. Before the war had begun, Calliope had stood beside her as her bridesmaid in her wartime wedding, her elopement to Remus Lupin. And even in wartime, there were a few evenings when the two old friends only talked about their school days, and baby names, and books, as if there was no war at all.

Dora promised Calliope that if her baby was a girl, Calliope would be her godmother. But Remus' choice for godfather left Calliope a little surprised…

ooo

"_Harry Potter_?" Calliope repeated. "Really? You _really_ couldn't think of anyone better?"

"Remus insists. It would make him so happy."

"If you can just pick a celebrity, I wonder how many girls have Celestina Warbeck as a godmother."

"He's not a celebrity to us, you know that. He's a good friend of Remus, and… I'm getting to know him."

"Dora, there are so many better people."

"Yes. And most of them are dead."

Calliope gave a groan. Death was not only a grievous tragedy, it was an unfair trump card in debates. "But he hasn't _done_ anything since You-Know-Who took over."

"That we know of."

"_One_ infiltration of the Ministry. That served to heighten the rampant paranoia. And one curious incident in Godric's Hollow at Christmas, that some conspiracy hopefuls attribute to him."

"That's not nothing."

"Well, then. He's either a _brilliant_ strategist or a complete idiot. And Luna—" her voice choked, but she went on, "was braver than him by far with what she was keeping up in Hogwarts."

Dora glanced at the doorway. "Don't let Remus hear you. Now, calm down. Fifty-fifty says it'll be a little girl and I'll name her Thalia and you'll be her godmother and teach her to play violin at six years old."

Between that conversation and the actual birth, several important pieces of information came to light:

The news was confirmed that Tisiphone Gibbs had died shortly after Calliope's rescue. She had fought six other Death Eaters at a time, and gone down fighting.

The Obliviators were officially renamed the Interrogators and their abilities were used to force confessions out of Undesirables, and their program to amend the memories of Muggles were cancelled.

And Harry Potter, like a big damn hero, had rescued Servaas Ollivander and Luna Lovegood from Malfoy Manor.

Calliope hated having to eat her words, having to owe so much to Harry Potter, and having to be absent on a mission for a whole week when Dora's son, Theodore "Gift of God" Lupin was born. But she couldn't be bitter in the face of how happy, splendidly, exhaustedly happy, Dora was.

And when Uncle Ollivander was transported, safe and sound and free at last, to Ingleside, the house of Muriel Weasley, Calliope was there waiting to meet him.

ooo

Hector Gibbs was having a very stressful day.

Over the course of his buying groceries, half a dozen pamphlets were thrown nearly into his face: Muggles and the threat they pose to a wholesome pure-blood society; Your new friends the Interrogators and why you should trust them; and of course, why it was imperative that all witches and wizards be fruitful and multiply and leave off such "deviant" practices as birth control and – he squinted at the pamphlet in his hand – sediment. Yes, that said sediment.

He stuffed the pamphlet into a pocket. Proofreading – just another tiny element that was really going down the tubes. He paused on the cobblestones, readjusting his shopping bags and trying to remember if there was anything he'd forgotten.

And then Gringotts exploded, and a dragon crawled into the sky.

While other people shoved each other to get out of the way, out of the street, Hector stood as still as a statue, mouth open, just _staring_. And his shock doubled when he recognized who was _on_ the dragon – Undesirables 2 and 3, with Harry Potter himself astride the dragon's neck.

For a moment they remained poised atop Flourish and Blotts' bookstore, the dragon serene, the three teenagers just as confused as the people at street level. Until the girl turned around and cracked a spell at the dragon's tail to send it flying, up north, away.

A part of Hector knew that the street would soon be swarming with Snatchers and law enforcement, but it was only the crack of tiles falling on the ground and someone's cry of "That's my shop!" that brought him to his senses. '_My shop_.'

He ran up Diagon Alley's South Side, with eyes only for his shop, his own place. Up the stairs he went, to his tiny apartment. He inhaled deeply the aroma of cut wood, polish, and old paper, and found he was shaking. He put down the groceries, and they spilled on the floor. He went upstairs.

A ham radio sat on his bedside table. He took out the microphone and clapped on his earphones, not bothering to close the blinds or be quiet. He turned it on. "Sword of Gryffindor," he said as steady as he could. "Sword of Gryffindor, this is Page of Staves calling River, River, do you read me?"

Lee Jordan's voice came through on the headphones. "Read you loud and clear, Page o' Staves, what's up?"

"I think shit's about to hit the fan."

"What? Page of Staves, are you _cussing_?"

"Damn you, I _mean_ it! A dragon just flew out of Gringotts and Lightning Boy was on it!"

And then everything started to happen very fast.

News whipped over airwaves and radio, by fireplace and owl's wing and word of mouth: You-Know-Who was coming to Diagon Alley, to fight Harry Potter at Gringotts. No, to the Ministry, to declare himself Minister of Magic. No, to Hogwarts.

In the end, there were three battles, and an Ollivander was present at each:

Hector led the resistance against the brutal police shutdown of Diagon Alley, using his shop as a headquarters.

In the Ministry, an Interrogator-In-Chief thought he would quell the rising panic by making an example out of Linus Ollivander, that pompous ass who used his Leglimency and Occlumency to get around the law. So all of the Interrogators and all of the rest of Magical Law Enforcement and as many employees of the Ministry could be spared were all gathered in the Atrium, to watch as Linus Ollivander was publicly punished. But something went awry, something snapped. It turned into a riot, as wizards and witches flooded the executive and legislative offices, destroying printing presses, files, statues, posters, anything that it was possible to destroy.

And Calliope stood outside of the nursery door as Dora laid baby Teddy down in his crib. While Dora kissed Teddy good-bye, Calliope went downstairs and used the telephone to make a long-distance call to Mark, leaving a voicemail, telling him that she loved him.

Then the two women took their leave of Andromeda Tonks and Apparated together to Hogwarts.

ooo

Calliope had not wanted to believe that Hogwarts could be a battlefield, but a battlefield it was. To her horror she found herself cataloguing the parts of the castle strategically – Ravenclaw Tower, good spot, easily defensible, the dungeons, avoid them, too easy to get lost or trapped – as if the place hadn't been her home for seven years.

She took all orders directly from Dora, who had been at the school a year ago during the first skirmish on its grounds. More information came her way, and still she organized what she knew and reported it to Dora, information such as:

Death Eaters were assembling (obviously),

Acromantula were sighted coming out of the Forest in droves (bloody brilliant),

Harry Potter was somewhere in the school (ludicrously unimportant, judging by his performance for the rest of the war),

Luna Lovegood was last seen fighting off Dementors out on the southeast court (very important), and

Remus was last seen fighting Rookwood (monumentally important. Wherever Remus went Dora wanted to follow, and Calliope would not let Dora out of her sight.)

Fleur was somewhere, Professor Flitwick was somewhere, He Who Must Not Be Named was _somewhere_, but Dora was here and now, squeezing Calliope's hand and sharing one last glance with her before they went together to the Charms Corridor, where Remus was last seen.

Bellatrix Lestrange met them there. Behind her was another Death Eater, who engaged Calliope at once. The Death Eater was masked; Calliope never knew their face or even gender. They kept aiming at her arms but she was good at elemental magic – she brought down the fire from a flickering torch and sent it at the Death Eater's face so they ripped off their mask because the smoke made it hard to breathe, and Calliope shot them with _Avada Kedavra_ and they fell facedown and that wasn't so hard, was it?

Except they hadn't died, they only convulsed in pain (the spell wasn't strong enough) and raised their wand to shoot a spell of white flame at her. She dodged, deflected it, and knew only one of them could live. She shot _Avada Kedavra _again and this time her spell was true.

The Death Eater died, and it wasn't the first time she'd killed someone and she turned around. Dora was giving Bellatrix the fight of her life, and Calliope felt a rush of pride for her friend. Other participants came in, Death Eaters, trying to help the Dark Lord's lieutenant, but Calliope drew them off, because Dora could win against her, she was that _good_.

And her wand arm was numbed by a curse that had just missed her, but she knew Weatherwax magic, where anything can be a weapon if you're holding it right. The rug was her weapon, the splintered frame of a painting, and her arm was back to normal and she killed her opponent and she had to check on Dora and she turned around and Dora was dead.

Dora lay dead on the floor, her body unmarked, and this was impossible, no, not impossible, she may be a great fighter but you can never account for _luck_ – this was impossible.

Bellatrix was walking towards her, putting away her wand and taking her knife out, and _that_ was what woke Calliope up. Before Bellatrix took another step Calliope was standing over Dora's body, wand pointed at Bellatrix's heart.

"Oh, that's lovely." Bellatrix stepped very slightly to the left. Calliope's wand followed. "Is the Mad Girl going to defend her playmate? Step aside."

"No."

Bellatrix's smile dropped. "That slut you're standing over is my niece, and therefore mine to do with as I please – now step _aside_—"

She was wrong. Dora belonged to Calliope. Bellatrix reached out one arm to slice off Calliope's fingers, but the younger witch curled her wand in midair and said "_Sangrius Amonveux_."

Bellatrix's arm gave a twitch and she dropped the knife. Calliope pulled her arm back and Bellatrix's arm traveled with it, limp as a marionette.

The older woman's face contorted in fear and pain as the spell's effects spread through her shoulders and to her other arm.

"You're – you're controlling my _blood_?" she gasped, her breath now uneven and hitched as Calliope's magic crept into her lungs.

"Looks like it." Was the answer.

(Somewhere in the office of Thorfinn Rowle, where she had been imprisoned, there was a book, with instructions of elemental magic, and particularly the manipulation of blood, because what was blood but water with a bit of earth mixed in, after all.)

"Let me go!" Bellatrix shrieked, but only once as her face flushed and a vein throbbed in her neck.

Calliope stared at her coldly, then directed her wand down, sending her power to the arteries of Bellatrix's legs. She made her walk, step by painful step, until the captive reached the top of the staircase.

Then she released the spell, and Bellatrix _ran_.

One minute, two, three, Calliope waited to make sure she was gone. Then she heard the noises of the battle again – people were fighting, far off, in a place that wasn't Hogwarts. And Calliope was alone with her dead.

It was she who brought Dora's body to the Great Hall. She had closed her friend's eyes and stood guard in the Charms corridor until the reprieve was announced, so that when Dora was laid out on the floor, she looked like she could be asleep. She laid Dora next to Remus' body – and that sight meant nothing was fair in the world, nothing was left, if some cruel god could strike the two of them down with little Teddy at home, sleeping and fed. Throughout the reprieve, Calliope stood vigil. She saw the people, coming and going, injured, dead, miraculously whole.

The whole time, she felt she was not herself, not Calliope, but an invisible receptacle of grief, a tiny voice that was meant to scream, because the grief was flooding her, uprooting her, and nothing would ever be just right again.

She bent down and curled a lock of hair – she would never remember the color of it – behind Dora's ear. When she stood up, Luna was standing by, hair clumsily braided, face bloodless. She only said, very quietly, "I hate war."

Calliope nodded agreement, and then reached out and held Luna tight, and they hugged each other. Calliope wanted to scream or sob or do anything, but she could not.

ooo

Later on, she saw Luna (plus two other girls) battling Bellatrix Lestrange, and she would have run between them, would have slaughtered Bellatrix, but Molly Weasley's voice echoed through the hall. "Not my daughter, you _bitch!_ Back – get _back_ – she is mine!"

And Calliope had never known Mrs. Weasley all that well, but she knew Dora had been almost a daughter to her. And Calliope stepped back, watching in growing admiration, near reverence, as Mrs. Weasley _battled_. She didn't use a single verbal barb or torturous hex like Bellatrix did. Mrs. Weasley shot to kill, and Bellatrix didn't take the words "You – will – never – touch – our – children – again" seriously. Bellatrix laughed, and Molly shot a direct _Avada Kedavra_ to her heart.

And as Lord Voldemort screamed, Calliope had felt as if a knot had come undone – Dora was avenged – but then, her barbaric joy was dashed, because it fixed _nothing_. And right on cue, Harry Potter ripped off his Invisiblity Cloak in the Great Hall and challenged Lord Voldemort to a duel like it was some kind of show. Calliope could have spat.

She watched the ensuing spectacle like it was a pantomime, and she suspected the rest of the onlookers did, too. Why else would they cheer like a bunch of goddamn sports fans when Harry Potter reached out and caught the Dark Lord's wand like it was a rose thrown to a world champion?

Calliope left the hall then.

She felt that she was supposed to help clean up, but walked away from the rubble, from the survivors and the dead. Once she thought of Dora, and then she turned around and went straight back.

The bodies were being taken care of. Kingsley Shacklebolt was organizing them. And Molly Weasley stood guard, with a retinue of sons around her and her grey-faced husband. Nearby lay Dora and Remus' bodies. Calliope asked a meaningless question, but Mrs. Weasley caught her eye and nodded, as if to say that Dora was no less precious to her than Fred, or Remus.

Then Calliope said a stupid thing. She said, "I'll tell Andromeda."

Why had she said that? Why had she taken on that burden? Andromeda was another aunt to her, but she couldn't walk up and tell her that she'd lost not only her husband, but her only daughter, her baby… No matter; the burden felt too right and too awful to revoke.

She found Luna sitting in silence next to the boy with the sword, and reached out, squeezed her hand in a wordless, tangible good-bye.

Then once more Calliope walked out, away from the earth and lake, towards the path she'd walked so often with Dora, away from the battle that she felt she would never leave, to break the news to Andromeda.

Andromeda didn't need to be told. The fact that Calliope had returned, alone, was all the news that she needed.

ooo

But before Calliope Disapparated, when she was out of hearing range, she looked back towards the smoking castle and _screamed_, screamed so loud she fell to her knees with the force of it, screamed, and shrieked, and wept.

ooo

Calliope waited at Andromeda's house to receive news. Owls crisscrossed the sky that day more densely and quickly than they had on November first, 1980.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was instated as temporary Minister of Magic. Blodwen Rowle, now Thorfinn's widow, was placed under house arrest but reunited with her son, Tristan. The street rebellion in Diagon Alley had left many wounded and done much damage, but Hector wrote to say that the shop's damage was superficial, nothing that some elbow grease couldn't repair. Oh, and he was fine, too.

Amity Tweak wrote from the Ministry of Magic to say that the Death Eaters had variously surrendered or been overpowered. She herself had arrived late to the skirmish there. And Linus had survived the battle, mostly because he didn't fight.

Before it had even started, he'd been 'made an example of' – and those who had disciplined him had curbed his means of performing Leglimency. His eyes had been cursed, and now he was stone blind.

Time would tell if he could be healed, Amity wrote, her writing unusually jagged and crooked. She added that Linus refused to let anyone try to heal him with the Rod of Asclepius, with the editorial _stubborn idiot_.

Oh, and he had asked Amity to marry him, and she had said "Yes."

That day, and the days that followed, were among the strangest in Calliope's life. A few sensations stood out vividly – baby Teddy's howling cry, the shock of seeing Linus and talking to him with his now totally grey eyes staring past her, and the quivering feel and sound of her own voice as she sang at Dora's memorial service. When she cried, she thought she would never stop. When her tears dried, she thought she would always be a wretched shell, and nothing would ever be just right again.

But slowly there came other sensations, not burning her but warming. She and Hector led Uncle Servaas through the rubble of Diagon Alley, to the front door of the shop, on his tottering feet. All the masons, shop owners, and repair workers stopped what they were doing, every single one, to walk over to old Mr. Ollivander, and shake his hand, and pat him on the shoulder, and tell him how highly they always thought of him. And when Hector put the key to the shop in his hand, and Mr. Ollivander opened the door, the onlookers all burst into applause.

Later, there was the sardonic glee she took when Harry Potter first took his godson in his arms, and the baby _shrieked _like a banshee and reached out an arm in Calliope's direction.

There was also the entirely more wholesome joy she felt when Harry Potter – just Harry, that's what he liked to be called – pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and determined to try again, until Teddy was relaxed and at peace and perfectly loving and trusting in his arms.

There was the sound of Fleur's rapid, fluttering French as she told Calliope that she was pregnant. There was the smile that lit up Linus' face when Amity talked to him, and the way that he sought out her hand and kissed it. There was Luna's visit to the wandshop, to just "check up on Mr. Ollivander," the first of many more to come. And as she and Calliope talked about the nightmares they both had, Calliope looked at Luna's silvery eyes and thought, '_She _could_ be a part of the family. And why not_?'

But there were still nightmares.

Twenty-seven days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Calliope, Linus, Hector, Amity, Aunt Phoebe, and, most beloved, Uncle Servaas, took lunch in the apartment above the wand shop. Calliope had retired to the window seat, looking out over the street. She was waiting, looking into the milling crowd and the remains of debris.

Then, sudden as the strike of a clock, she saw them. Julietta, leading the way, Januarius, looking very lost, and behind him, looking around with a wary but irrepressible curiosity, finding the wand shop –

Calliope was up and out of the room. She nearly flew down the corridor, down the stairs, between the narrow shelves piled all the way up to the ceiling. She reached the desk just as Mark opened the door.

Mark stood in the doorway, staring at her – and he looked healthy, wearier, and as confused and uncertain as she'd ever known him –

She couldn't move.

He crossed the space between them, dropping his suitcase and in a moment she met him, held him, clung to him, kissed him over and over.

Their knees gave way; they fell to the floor, and she found herself crying, though whether with joy or sorrow or relief, she wasn't sure. But there were tears on his face, too, when he pulled back to look at her. He said, "It's good to see you."

She nodded, looking into his eyes – hazel with a ring of gold around the pupil. Had she ever noticed that before? She would never be able to look at him enough. "It's good to see you, too."

"Would you care to – to go dancing?" He smiled, uncertain of the question, if this was the time or the place – but she laughed softly – the first time since Dora's death – and nodded, and kissed him.

She leaned into him, pressing into his shoulder and neck as he wrapped his arms around her, like he would never let her go. "It's _so_ good to see you," she said.


	37. Epilogue

Epilogue:

A New Wand

Retirement, Mr. Ollivander decided, was very nice.

He had all the time in the world now for his books, his correspondences (he had a lovely epistle from Miss Lovegood, in Siberia now), and his thinking. His desk bore numerous photographs from over the years – and there were so many years.

Benedicte grinned to the school portraits of his oldest friends, who waved back in outdated formality. In a more recent photograph, Calliope and Linus were receiving the Order of Merlin, third class. Another, taken the next day, showed Mark accepting one of the first medals ever cast in the Order of Galahad, the medal to honor Muggles who had performed mighty services to wizardkind. There was Hector's first official portrait as the owner and manager of Ollivander's Shop; weddings, visits, travels, all memories preciously kept. There were newer faces, too, and new names: Janet and Cecily, Emerson and Grace, and Garrick and Asha.

That reminded him of today's visit, and a very important one it was, too.

He wheeled away from his desk and checked to make sure that the visitor's foyer was cleanly swept and perfectly organized, every inch. Yes, it was all acceptable.

And not at all thanks to him. He smiled as he took a place by the window, where he could watch the southern side of Diagon Alley without being seen from outside.

Hector must have swept out, with his usual attention to detail. After the war, Hector had met two orphans who, surprisingly, each had a strong aptitude for wandmaking. A bachelor could not adopt children, but Hector took them on as "apprentices." At the start, Garrick and Asha (the former of whom was still at Hogwarts) had seemed to live in perpetual awe of old Mr. Ollivander. Now they followed Hector's lead and called him "Uncle" with warmth and respect.

Yes, Mr. Ollivander thought, retirement was _extremely_ nice.

He continued to watch.

And to wait.

He began to check his pocketwatch. Was he mistaken about the day? Or the time? He was prone to such moments – prone to forgetting, to nightmares, prone to hours of nothing but reminiscences, if only to tally up his memories and be sure that they were all still intact. Had he forgotten again? He was about to call Hector and ask when he saw them.

Calliope led the way, her sights fixed on the storefront. Clinging to one hand, a little self-consciously, was her firstborn daughter. Mark trailed slightly, staring in never-ending wonder at the sights of Diagon Alley, with another little girl perched on his shoulders.

Calliope pushed the door open. Somewhere in the depths of the shop a bell tinkled.

"Hello, Uncle," Calliope said, smiling at him.

"Good morning, my dear," Mr. Ollivander wheeled himself out of the corner to greet them properly. "And good morning, Mark – Cecily. And a very happy birthday to you, Janet Tinuviel."

Janet, the oldest of the Ollivander children, stepped forward and lightly kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Uncle."

Cecily greeted him the same way (although she merely kissed the air above his skin) as Hector appeared, quite silently, from behind the towering shelves. A minute later, Asha appeared as well, with much less stealth. The shop was filled with lively chatter, greetings, and shared plans to meet Linus and Amity and their family later on, and yes, kids do grow up so fast, and where will Asha go on her Tour of Asia?

But Mr. Ollivander saw a moment of quiet. Janet, tall for her ten years, tugged on her mother's hand again. Calliope turned to her daughter, and bent a little to see eye to eye. "What is it, love?"

Mr. Ollivander saw that his grand-niece's hands were still scarred, her fingers a little crooked, from the Second War. But his great-grand-niece's hand's were unblemished and white and fluttered anxiously.

"I'm scared, Mum. I'm – I'm nervous. I –" Janet looked down. "I'm nervous about growing up."

The chatter in the background started to quiet a bit. Calliope's voice was soft but clear. "I know. But, one, it can't be helped, and two, you're already starting to grow up. This is just the next step on you becoming… your best possible self. And you know—" she smiled, "I'll be with you every step of the way."A stray lock of hair stuck out in front of Janet's ear; Calliope tucked it back. "Feel better?"

Janet nodded. Now the level of noise had reached the near-reverent silence custom to the shop. Hector and Asha were ready to be wand-sellers. Mark laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "You ready, little Tinuviel?"

Janet looked up at him. "Yeah. Ready."

Mr. Ollivander watched Mark's face, looking for some confusion, some loss, as his firstborn took her first real step into a world of which he could not be a part. But all that Mr. Ollivander saw was pride, and delight, and just a tinge of melancholy. "Well! Let's get right to it, then."

"Yes, let's." Mr. Ollivander wheeled forward. Hector said nothing. Mr. Ollivander had known he would say nothing, had heard him telling Calliope over Floo, "He doesn't have much time left. If you want him to give Janet her wand, do it soon."

Mr. Ollivander knew he didn't have much time left. But he had just enough time, here, and now.

"Let's see." He looked closely at her. She had her mother's height and hair, but her father's expressive mouth. Something in her posture reminded him of Calliope, her great-grandmother, but the way she clasped her hands seemed inscrutably American to him. And…

"Janet Tinuviel," he said slowly, relishing the odd, entirely un-Ollivander-like middle name.

"It means nightingale," she mumbled, like he didn't know that, didn't know that nightingales flew in the names Tinuviel and Philomel. She looked him in the eye. Her eyes were grey, Ollivander silver, with a ring of gold around the pupil. He smiled. This girl was capable of great things. And she needed a wand to match that.

"Your wand hand is your right, correct? I don't need the measuring tape, thank you, Hector." He'd heard his grand-nephew already unraveling the crinkly silver tape. "In Aisle Six, Crescent section, you'll find a collection of boxes from different departments grouped in a foursquare configuration, would one of you be so kind as to—"

Hector and Asha were already off, and returned in a moment, each balancing an armload of boxes.

"As you can see, I've taken the liberty of selecting a few wands ahead of time that I think might favor you…"

"A _few_?" Mark repeated incredulously.

"Did you expect me to be anything less than thorough?"

"Retirement must be nice," Janet remarked to herself.

Mr. Ollivander fixed her with a glare. Then he winked almost imperceptibly. "To begin, then, how about dogwood and unicorn hair? Ten and three quarter inches, surprisingly swishy. Go on."

Janet tried the dogwood, but knew quickly that it was no match. Nor was the hornbeam, nor the oak, nor the rowan. At some point, she put aside the wand in her hand (laurel and dragon heartstring) – and said, "Uncle, may I?"

"Of course." He wheeled back to allow her full access to the desk, where a half-dozen wands lay yet to be tested. Janet read the labels on their boxes – their symbols and code quite clear to her – and inspected the wands themselves closely. (Her sister began to fidget noisily).

One wand she took up and held to the light, studying the carvings.

"Is this—" she said tentatively, "Hazel and… phoenix feather?"

Mr. Ollivander nodded. "Just shy of ten inches. Pliable. A wand that should be quick to learn anything, and adapt."

Janet glanced at her parents, who nodded encouragingly to her (while Cecily began to moan, "Just _try_ it already!") Then, she gave the wand a few test swishes, then waved it over her head and brought it down.

The tip of the wand erupted with silver and gold sparks. Her smile was luminous. "I did it, I did it, I did it!" She hopped up and down in glee, and then ran to hug her parents. "Oh my gosh oh my _gosh_ I did it!"

Hector and Asha and Cecily all clapped loudly. So did Mr. Ollivander, who added, "That was one of the first wands that I ever made. It's been waiting a long time. I'm glad it chose you."

Janet squeezed his hand and kissed his withered cheek again. "Thank you, Uncle, thank you so much."

Calliope took the handles of his wheelchair and began to push him to the sunlit street outside. "Yes – thank you."

Two photographs were taken to commemorate Janet's new wand: one, a digital photograph (very much an oddity in the family archives), and the other, a moving, magical image.

Both showed the storefront of Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands since 362 B.C., on a fine morning in late May. There were two figures: old Servaas Ollivander, in his finely wrought chair, with a look in his pale eyes saying that he saw much more than the street and the photographers, both Muggle and magic. And the girl beside him was black-haired and silver-eyed, like but not _quite_ like many other generations before her. She held out her hazel wand with a little pride and a little apprehension, and much joy.

And so they saved a little moment, before life continued and changed. And together with the many other photographs placed on tables and walls, in albums and wallets, it helped to make a weave of memory. There was a magic there. It wasn't a magic with spells or potions or even a name, but a power that was present and true and bright, for always.

The End

ooooo

Yes. This is the end.

It's been five years since I began this fanfiction. It was my first major writing project, a story that grew in the telling. With it I hoped to accomplish so much in the Harry Potter fandom – not least, to return to the world of fanfiction something of what it gave to me.

What started out as my baby, my literary treasure, my pride, I now see as peppered with flaws, and riddled throughout. I feel like I should issue an elaborate, Renaissance-style apology for my work – but I won't. If my writing and my writing process were both flawed, so be it. This was an immense learning curve experience. I learned so much, and the mistakes are a part of the learning. I have time to develop my craft and learn more and more as I keep writing. Any regrets I have for this work are for having let down my readers, to whom I owe an immense debt of gratitude. Thank you, I thank every single one of you, for reading, and for reviewing.

If my story brought some delight and thrills to you, then I'm happy. If I prompted people to think about Muggles in the Potter verse in a new way, and to never look at Mr. Ollivander, or the Obliviators, the same way again, then I'll be content. If this story has inspired new ideas, for Harry Potter or any other works, I'll be over the moon.

Someday I plan to revive these characters, perhaps, in a new world and a new setting. In the meantime, I'll continue to write fanfiction of whatever fandom strikes my fancy, and post it here.

As the Ollivander motto says, "It buds afresh." Keep on reading, I will keep on writing, and I'll strive to please you every day.


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